THE 

LADY  OF  DARDALE 

AND 
OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


HORACE  EATON  WALKER. 

li 


These  are  my  blossoms ;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

—Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


MANCHESTER,  N.  H. : 
BROWNE  &  ROWE,  PUBLISHERS, 

1886. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

HOKACE  EATON  WALKER, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


DEDICATION: 

TO 

AMERICA 


And  whilome  bard  has  sung  his  lay, 

His  deathless  choral  songs ; 
The  world  is  bowed ;  a  mighty  sway 

To  nature's  bard  belongs. 

The  Tale  of  Troy  was  sung  divine ; 

A  master  harp ;  a  voice 
The  ages  love ;  a  moistened  eyne 

Where  poesy's  arts  rejoice. 

The  Maros  came  of  rural  theme ; 

'Twere  Homers  struck  the  lyre ; 
The  Sire-bard's  numbers  did  but  gleam 

Where  Virgil's  were  on  fire. 

Italian  Petrarch,  crowned  at  birth, 

Begemmed  Italia's  skies ; 
A  later  bard,  yet  never  earth  , 

Rejects  her  deities. 

And  Tasso,  sweet  Sorrento's  bard, 

Another  link;  the  chain 
Is  gemmed,  is  gold,  is  golden  starred ; 

Another  yet  to  reign? 

My  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton,  Pope, 

A  rainbow-tinted  chain ; 
And  joy  and  peace  and  meek-eyed  hope, 

Are  there  in  various  train. 

The  Dantes,  Gcethes,  Drydens,  all 
A  star-gemmed  band  that  time 

Shall  honor  more  as  time  shall  fall, 
And  years  make  more  sublime. 

in 


IV  DEDICATION:   70  AMERICA. 

And  Burns7  and  Goldsmith.    O  thou  years ! 

Thou  years !    A  miser  thou ! 
The  heart  is  full ;  the  falling  tears 

Are  thine ;  a  form  does  bow. 

And  sweet  exquisite  bard  *  that  time 
Has  laureled  near  the  throne, 

Has  mellowed  all ;  the  stars  may  shine ; 
A  seraph  sky,— alone  ? 

The  birds  are  various,  charm  of  song 
Their  sweet,  their  native  art ; 

Shall  all  be  mavis-birds  ?    The  throng 
Were  mad,  each  charms  the  heart. 

Apollo,  gods,  the  Greek,  the  slave, 
Their  mighty  songs  have  sung ; 

No  haunt,  no  magic  shape  of  wave, 
But  sad  or  sweet  has  rung. 

And  yet,  my  Nation,  poesy  stole 
My  secret  hour,  and  named 

Me  helpless  victim ;  Csesars  roll, 
But  gentler  powers  claimed. 

'Tis  nothing  new  the  muse  has  won 
From  Eden  scene  or  view  ; 

Tho'  nothing  new,  yet  shone  a  sun, 
A  rainbow's  vying  hue. 

Accept  mv  book,  my  earthborn  song, 

And  time  shall  name  our  love  ; 
The  fledgling  flies  when  wings  are  strong,. 
'Tis  hope  that  shines  above. 

*Tennyson. 
Claremont,  N.  H. 


PREFACE. 

Sweetly  deckt  with  pearly  dew 

The  morning  rose  may  blow ; 
But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 

May  lay  its  beauties  low.— Robert  Burns. 

On  August  9,  1852,  a  child  was  born  at  Charlestown,  N.  H.,  who,  Burns- 
like,  was  to  eke  out  a  precarious  and  uncertain  poetic  existence  in  the 
coming  years.  You  see  the  little  gable-roofed  house  where  he  was  born 
at  the  foot  of  the  long  hill,  with  its  old  moss-covered  watering-trough, 
just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  historic  town.  It  stands  there  to-day  in  its 
unassuming  simplicity,  with  slight  marks  of  age,  though  nearly  thirty- 
four  years  have  passed  since  his  birth  there.  In  the  earlier  years  of  his 
life  his  parents  moved  to  Claremont,  N.  H.,  thence  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
the  father  returning  to  that  place  from  a  short  sojourn  in  California. 
From  thence  the  family  returned  to  Claremont,  where  the  author  is 
still  residing,  and  where,  too,  his  poetic  labors  have  been  performed  in 
the  last  nine  years  of  his  life.  Come  of  poor  parents  his  educational  ad- 
vantages were  small,  he  not  having  attended  school  since  he  was  about 
sixteen  years  of  age ;  "and  the  book  now  lying  before  you  was  mostly 
composed  in  a  cotton  factory  while  tending  the  Slasher  so  of  ten  referred 
to  in  his  poems.  But  not  till  he  reached  the  age  of  twenty-five  did  he 
attempt  poetry.  And  strange  enough,  the  "Lady's  Cabinet  of  Polite 
Literature"  was  the  star-book  of  his  poetic  career,  which  having  been 
published  in  1808,  there  was  something  of  the  enchantment  that  dis- 
tance lends  to  the  view.  The  sweet  Goldsmith  had  sung  there ;  the 
half-forgotten  Akenside ;  the  bard  of  tenderest  melancholy,  Collins ;  the 
stronger  and  the  more  defiant  Dry  den,  in  his  beautiful  Ode  to  Alexan- 
der; that  elegy  which  has  become  the  Elegy,  Gray's,  was  sung  there ; 
Piror,  Parnell,  Cartwright  and  Ogilvie,  had  verses,  with  a  snatch  of 
song  by  Hannah  More;  "The  Deserted  Village,"  "The  Traveller," 
with  "places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made."  Inspired  by  these  he 

V 


vi  PREFACE. 

touched  on  many  subjects,  and  wrote  on  the  enchanting  theme  of 
Knighthood  from  a  desire  to  treat  some  few  of  the  sweet  melancholies 
and  tender  beauties  of  Scottish  life  and  history,  that  the  "Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,"  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  and  the  "Pleasures  of 
Hope,"  had  drawn  him  there.  The  years  went  by,  and  his  book  was 
ready  for  publication  only  a  few  short  years  after  the  death  of  him  who 
sang  "Evangeline"  so  sweetly,  sang  the  people's  thoughts  and  aspira- 
tions, and  left  a  legacy  of  purity  and  tenderness  to  the  sorrowing  hearts 
of  his  countrymen  unrivaled  for  the  beauty  of  its  diction,  and  the  cul- 
tured simplicity  of  its  style. 

And  thou  hast  come  and  thou  hast  gone, 

The  changing  scenes  of  life, 

A  sweetness  in  the  strife, 

Where  Joy  and  Care  were  rife, 
And  Labor  softest  robes  put  on. 


CONTENTS. 

Page. 
THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE,         .          .          .          .          .          .1 

THE  FALLEN  MAPLES,         ....  .124 

IN  THE  DELL,        .....                             .  i£(> 

I  KNEW  NOT  WHY, 127 

A  PRAYER  FOB  THE  NATION,             .          .          .          .  12<» 

ROBERT  BUBNS  AND  His  HIGHLAND  MABY,    ...  131 

FLAT  ROCK, i3f> 

SUGAB  RIVEB,  ........  138 

BENEATH  THE  MAPLES,            .....  140 

AMERICA,           .          .          .          .          .          .                    .  142 

WAB  OF  THE  REBELLION,         .          .                    ...  143 

ELLSWOBTH,       .........  144 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN,    .          .          .          .          ...  145 

THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT,      .....  147 

THE  BATTLE, .  14* 

EVENING,            ........  151 

THE  BROKEN  HOME,        .......  152 

BENEATH  THE  STARS,           .          .          .          .          .          .  163 

LIFE  Is  SWEET  AND  LIFE  Is  SAD,    .          .          .          .          .  167 

EVENING,            .          .                    .          .          .                    .  i<><) 

THE  ROBIN  IN  THE  RAIN,         .          .          .          .          .          .    >  171 

BY  THE  SEA,      .          .          .          ...          ...  172 

EMERSON,      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .174 

YE  BARDS  OF  SONG,             .          .          .                    ,  175 

AN  ELEGY,             .          .          .          .          .          .-"...-'  177 

HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY,       .          .          .          .          .       "  .  180 

THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON,        .          .          .          ...  183 

OUB  MABTYBED  PRESIDENT,         .          .          .          ,          .  207 

TAKE  ME  BACK  TO  MENTOR,  .       -    ..*         .          ...          .  209 

THERE'S  A  SONG  IN  THE  FLOWERS,       .          .          .          .  210 

THE  SUMMER  Is  GONE,  ;.  .          ,          .          .          .          .211 

BBIAR  ROSES,    .          .          .          .                    .          .          .  211 

THE  TEAR  OF  THE  WEEPER,              .          .          .          .          .  212 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE,       .          .          .          .          .  214 

DOON  AND  AYR,               .          .                     .    '                 .          .  225 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW,    .          .          .          ...  22(5 

OLIVER  W.  HOLMES,       .           .           .          .          .          .          .  227 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER,    .          .          .          .  ,      .          .          .  '  228 

THE  GREAT  WHITE  SHIP,         .          .                                          .  230 

WHERE  TREES  O'EBHANG  THE  STREAM,          .          .          .  232 

VII 


vni  CONTENTS. 

THE  FRAY,         .          .          ...  .  .          .  233 

THE  HOUSE  WHERE  I  WAS  BORN,    .....  234 

SPRING  HAS  COME,     .......  235 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,      .          .          .          .          .          .  236 

LONGFELLOW,    .....       v  ...  237 

TENNYSON,  .........  238 

GOOD  MORNING,  MAY,          ......  240 

THE  TIME  TO  LOVE,       .......  241 

THE  RAREST  TIME,     .......  242 

A  REVERIE,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  243 

EROS,        .  246 

LOVE,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  247 

THE  SPRING  WOULD  COME,  .....  248 

BESIDE  HER  BABY'S  GRAVE,  .          .          .          .          .  249 

THE  MAY  QUEEN,       .......  250 

OH,  COME  A-LoviNG,      .......  251 

ROBERT  BURNS,  .......  252 

THE  BLIND  HUNTER  LAD,        ......  253 

A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,      ...  254 

MAY,  .          . 256 

BY  SUGAR  RIVEB,       .......  257 

FAREWELL  MY  HOMESTEAD,    ......  258 

THE  GRINDSTONE,       .......  259 

BESIDE  THE  STREAM,      .......  260 

BENEATH  THE  HAWTHORN,  .....  261 

APRIL  CAME,          ........  262 

EVE  AGAIN  IN  PARADISE,    .          .          .          .  .  263 

BY-BY,  MAY, 266 

How  DE  Do,  JUNE,    .......  267 

DRIVING  THE  Cows,        .......  268 

To  CHARLESTOWN,      .  .          .          .          .          .          .  270 

To  CLAREMONT,     .          .          .          .  .          .          .  271 

To  BROOKLYN,  .......  272 

A  LITTLE  EDEN,   ........  273 

SUMMER'S  HERE,          .......  274 

THE  SEWING  GIRL,          .......  275 

To  THE  CHILDREN,     .  .          .          .          ..          .  277 

MINNIE'S  BIRTHDAY,       ....          .          .          .          .  278 

HAL  AND  DORA,         ...          .          .          .          .  280 

MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE, 282 

A  POEM  ON  THE  ABOVE,      ......  283 

Two  LETTERS  FROM  O..W.  HOLMES,      ....  284 

A  BRIDE  To-NiGHT,       * 285 

WHICH  METER'S  BEST,  APOLLO?  ....  287 

BESIDE  His  DAUGHTER'S  GRAVE,     .          .  289 

THE  SEAMSTRESS,       .......  290 

WHAT  THE  BRIDE  SAID, 291 

A  PENNY,  SIR, 292 


CONTENTS.  ix 

JUNE,            .          .          .          .          .                    .  .    v      .          293 

MY  BOOKS,         .           .           .           .                      .  .           .               294 

MY  FAVORITES,     .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .          295 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE,       .          /         .          .  .          .              296 

FIFTY  YEARS,        .                    ...          .  .          .          297 

GOD  Is  WITH  You,  '.','.          .          .          .  .          *               298 

CHARLIE  Ross,      .          ,          .          .          .          .  .          V          300 

THE  DIVORCE,             .          .          .          .          .  .          .              301 

AT  LAST,      .          ....                 •    .  .          .          303 

THE  WAYSIDE  WELL,          .          .  ,       .          .  .          .               304 

GRANDPA'S  STORY,         *          .          .          .          .  .          .          305 

TELL  us  OF  HEAVEN,          .          .          .          .  .                         306 

Ho,  Ho,  MY  LITTLE  MAN,       ....          ...          .          308 

TOMMY  DAY,      .          .          .          ...          .  .      -   ,              309 

FRED  AND  OLD  MAJOR,           .          .                    .  .          .          310 

MEMORIAL  DAY,          .          .          .          .  r          ,               312 

WHERE'S  MAMMA?          .          .          .          .          .  .  ,       313 

MY  PONY,          .          .          .          .          .  .   '           315 

IOLA'S  BIRD  SONG,          .          .          .          *          .  .          .          316 

MY  KITTENS,     .          .                     .          .          .  .          .               317 

LOVE  Is  LIKE  THE  RAINBOW,            .          .          »  .          .          318 

WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAY,         .          .          ,          .  .          .              319 

THE  MONMOUTH  MAIDS,           .          .          .          .  320 

OUR  NEW  CHURCH,     .          .          .          .          ...  321 

MY  PLAYMATE,      .          .          .          .          .          .  .         r  •,       323 

MY  MOTHER,      .                     .          ,          . .         .  .          .               «°24 

BABY  DAY,        '    .          .          .          .          .          .  ..325 

MY  FLOWERS,    .          .          .          .                     .  •    ....            326 

AFTER  THE  SHOWER,                 .          .          .          .  .          .          327 

MY  BIRTHDAY,            .......  328 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SUGAR  RIVER,         .....          329 

WINTER  LINGERED,    .          .          .          .          ,   ,  .          .              330 

WHAT  THE  OLD  CLOCK  SAYS,            .          .          .  .          i>  •! 

THE  DEAD  BIRD'S  NEST,      .          .          .          . '  .          .              332 

A  MEMORY  OF  SUGAR  RIVER,            .          .          .  .          .          333 

THE  NEW  KNIFE,        .          .          .....          .  334 

THE  OLD  GUIDEPOST,      .          .          .          ...          .          336 

THE  OLD  STONEWALL,         .          .          .          .  .          .              337 

THE  SANBORN  MEMORIAL  STONE,     .          .  ,       .  ...          339 

THE  LADY'S  CABINET,         /         .          .          .  .          .               342 

BESIDE  THE  GRAVE,        .          .          .          *  ,        •  •          •          343 

THE  OLD  BRASS  KNOCKER,            .          .       '  .  .          .              344 
MY  BOYHOOD'S  DAYS,     .......          346 

SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER,                     .          .          ,  .          .  •            347 

MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE,      .                     ...  .          .          349 

THE  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE,      .          .    *                ,  .                         350 

THE  THREE  GRAVES,      .          .          .          .          .  .          352 

IN  AMONG  THE  LILIES,        .          .          .          .  .          .    .           353 


x  CONTENTS. 

THE  SNOW  STORM,           .          .          .          ....  354 

SHAKESPEAKE,            .......  355 

THE  BARD  OF  LEMPSTER,        .    .      .           .          .          .          .  357 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY, 358 

WATERLOO,             ........  360 

How  JOHN  WOOED  BETSEY,          .....  361 

THE  WAR  Is  OVER 363 

OH  ROBERT  BURNS,    .......  364 

THE  CHAMBER  OF  BROWN,       ......  365 

SUMMER  HAS  COME,  .......  366 

THE  VETERAN'S  STORY,            ......  368 

His  WEDDING  ROSE,  .......  369 

THE  BUTTERFLY,             .......  371 

WHAT  MRS.  GREGOR  SAID,             .....  373 

THE  FLUSH  OF  THE  MORNING,           ......  375 

THE  BLUE  AND  GRAY, 377 

AFTER  THE  BATTLB,       .          ,          .          .          .  378 

THE  DYING  VETERAN,          ......  380 

THE  HONEST  POOR,         .......  381 

THE  RUSTY  SWORD, 383 

JOHN'S  MARRIAGE,          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  384 

MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS,       .....  386 

THE  WORM, 390 

THE  PEBBLE  STONE,             .....  391 

THE  OLD  CANTEEN,        .......  392 

THE  NURSE,      .  .  ,394 

SWEET  JUNE  AT  LAST,    .......  396 

ANNIVERSARY  POEM,            ......  397 

THE  MASSACRE  of  GLENCOE,  ......  399 

THE  BAREFOOT  GIRL,           ...                    .  401 

THE  LEAF,              ....  404 

ON  THE  MEADOW,       .......  405 

EARTH  is  BEAUTIFUL,     .......  406 

CHILDREN'S  DAY,       .           .          .          .          .          .           .  407 

COME  WITH  ME, 408 

ON  THE  BRIDGE,         .                    .          .          .          .          .  409 

SWEETER  THAN  A  DREAM,        ......  410 

SING  ME  SONGS,          .......  411 

THOMAS  BECKET,  ........  412 

THE  SONS  OF  VETERANS,     .....  414 

CHILDREN'S  DAY  (second  version),      .....  416 

I'M  No  PATTI, 417 

WAITING  TO  BE  LOVED,            ......  418 

I  MUST  SING,     .                              419 

A  QUESTION,          ........  420 

MY  CREED,        .  .  ,421 

WHEN  FRIENDS  ARE  GONE,     .                                         .          .  422 

THE  BARD,         .          .          .          .          ,          .          .          /  423 


CONTENTS.  xi 

THE  LOST  KING,    .....  .424 

I  SAW  A  FLOWERET,  ....  .425 

PATCHES,      ......  .426 

LOVE  SOMETHING,       .....  427 

How  SWEET  TO  THINK,            .          .          .                              .  428 

A  SONG  OF  HOME,       .....  429 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM,                                           ,  430 

BESIDE  THE  GRAVE,  ......  432 

AUTUMN,       .........  433 

To  MY  MUSE,    .                     434 

You  FLATTERING  POET.  .          .          .          .          .          .435 

THEN  FARETHEEWELL,         .                               .  436 

You  ARE  A  LOVELY  TALKER,           ....  437 

How  JOHN  PROPOSED,          .....  438 

MY  MOTHER,          .          .           .          ,          .          .  ,...,.  440 

WHO  WILL  CARE  FOR  MOTHER  Now,     ...  442 

HAVE  Music  IN  YOUR  HOMES,        :  .          .          .       '  . ' .  444 

THE  CRITIC,       .          .          .          .          ...--'*          .  ±45 

DEATH,         .                     .          ....          .          .          .  446 

THE  PEN  AND  BARD,            .          .          .          ...  446 

THE  PEN  OF  GENIUS,      .          .          .          .          .          .          .  447 

CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GRAY,       .,.,..  448 

NOTHING  BUT  FLAGS  (selected,)          .          ...          .          .'  450 

NOTHING  BUT  FLAGS,            .          .          *          .          .          .  451 

DEAD,            .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  452 

THE  LITTLE  SINGERS,           .          .          .          .  .       ..          .  ,  453 

THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY,    .          .          /         .          *          .          .  455 

To  THE  SLASHER,        ...          .          ,          .          .  '    •    4  ••  458 

THE  GRASSHOPPER,         .          .          ...          .          .  460 

SIR  CRITIC,         .          .          ...          .          .         ..  463 

THE  POET  AND  His  MUSE,        .          .          .          .          ...  467 

SIEGE  OF  YICKSBURG,           .          .          .          .          .    -      i   .  473 

BATTLE  OF  SHILOH,         .          .          ,                •   ,          ...  475 

DEFENDING  A  HOME,             .           .          .          .          ,          .  477 

BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM,              .          .          .          .          ,          .  479 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW,      .          .          .  481 

WHAT  SAY  THE  WAVES?          .          .          .          .        ...         .  505 

LIFE  THOUGHTS,          .          .          .          ....  507 

CAROLINE, ..  509 

OUR  MABEL,      .          .          .          .          ....  512 

THIS  WORLD  Is  BUT  A  DREAM,          .          .          .          ...  514 

SUSIE  MAY,        .          .          .          .          .          ,          .          .  515 

BABY,           .          .          .          ,                   ,  :      't         ...  517 

UP  IN  HEAVEN,          .          ,          .          .          . ,        *   .      .  517 

You  ARE  ALL  IN  ALL  TO  ME,           .          .          ...          .  518 

AMONG  MY  BOOKS,      ....,,..  520 

THE  OLD  CANNON,          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  540 

VENUS,                .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  442 


xn  CONTENTS. 

ATALANTA,             .                              .....  544 

PALLAS  ATHENA,  ' 546 

CUPID, .548 

HYMEN^EUS,       ........  549 

BABY  WILLIE, 551 

THE  BRONZE  SOLDIER,          ......  552 

I'D  Woo  A  CLASSIC  MAID,        ......  555 

THOSE  THAT  WORE  THE  GRAY,     .....  556 

A  CLUSTER  OF  SONNETS,          ......  558 

Beatrice  Ccnci,          .......  558 

The  Greek  Slave, 559 

Nydia  the  Blind  Girl  of  Pompeii, .....  560 

The  .Libyan  Sibyl, 561 

Medea, 563 

Le  Premiere  Pose,         .          .          .                     .          .          .  564 

The  Angel  of  the  Sepulchre, 565 

Ophelia, 566 

A  CHAIN  OF  SONNETS,          ......  566 

THE  POET,               572 

OSCAR  WILDE,             .......  574 

THE  THREE  POETS, 576 

GENIUS,    .........  578 

POE, 580 

THINK,      .          .          .          , 581 

COME  BACK,  SWEET  BIRDS,      .          .          .                    .          .  582 

HER  BABY'S  CHAIN, 584 

SONNETS,      .........  589 

To  My  Mother, 589 

To  My  Book, 489 

To  My  Father, 590 

To  S.  E.  W 590 

At  the  Tomb  of  Longfellow, 590 

To  My  Son,  Six  Years  Old, 591 

To  the  Monadnock  Mills, 591 

To  My  Classic  Friends, 592 

To  Sugar  River 592 

To  the  World's  Great  Poets,    .          ,          .                     .          .  593 

To  the  Sage  of  Charlestown, 393 

THE  FOUR  ARTS,— GENIUS,       ......  593 

Poetry, 593 

Music, 594 

Sculpture,         .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  594 

Painting,    .           .  ' 595 

A  Piece  of  Marble, 595 

ELGIN  MARBLES,             .......  596 

THE  CROWN, 598 

THE  EATON  FAMILY  REUNION,          .....  605 

PSALM, 607 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Opposite  Page. 
AUTHOR'S  PORTRAIT,      .          .          .          .          .          .     Frontispiece 

HENRY'S  PORTRAIT,              ......  11 

IN  THE  DELL,         .          .          .          .          .          .          '.          .  126 

EVENING,           .....                   .  151 

THE  ROBIN  IN  THE  RAIN,         .         .          .          .          .      %  .  171 

BRIAR  ROSES,    .          .          .          .          .          .          .         .  211 

WHERE  TREES  O'ERHANG  THE  STREAM,     ...  232 

A  LITTLE  EDEN,          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  273 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE,             ...  296 

FRED  AND  OLD  MAJOR,        .          .          f  •        .    •                 .  310 
THE  NEW  KNIFE,             .....                  '  .                    .334 

THE  SANBORN  MEMORIAL  STONE,                      .          .          .  339 

IN  AMONG  THE  LILIES,             .          ...          .          .         .  ,  353 

THE  BUTTERFLY,         ..'.....  371 

THE  OLD  CANTEEN,        .......  392 

SWEET  JUNE  AT  LAST,                   .          .          .          .  396 

THE  LOST  RING,    .          ,          .          .          .          .       v,         .  424 

AUTUMN,            .          .          .          .          .          .          .  433 

THE  LITTLE  SINGERS,      .          .          .          .                    .          .  453 

DEFENDING  A  HOME,            .          .          .          .          .          .  477 

PORTRAIT  OF  LONGFELLOW,     ......  481 

WHAT  SAY  THE  WAVES,  (three  cuts,)  .  .  505 

THE  OLD  CANNON,  .  .  ...  .  .  .  540 

xni 


THEUDlfOFDARDALE. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE, 


JOHN  ELMER. 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  "THE   LADY   OF   DARDALE." 

The  country  turnpike,  like  a  tangled  dream, 
Wound  where  it  would,  a-like  a  natural  love, 
A  wayward  child.    Its  plan,  without  an  aim, 
The  thought,  so  far  as  skilless  art  could  find; 
But  curiosity,  ever  part  of  brain, 
Was  master  power,  and  with  a  silken  cord, 
As  syren  sweet  as  love  to  heart,  soft  led 
The  winding  way.    My  dappled  steed  was  pran'cing; 
The  freshened  May  distended  wide  his  nostrils, 
And  lent  him  new  life,  speed,  and  mettled  strength, 
Champing  the  bit,  and  straining  every  nerve, 
Till  mine,  beneath  the  tension,  seemed  as  harpstrings. 
For  fay-elfs  strung,  that  every  touch  might  stir 
The  soul.    I  crossed  the  bridge  that  time  had  left 
Enough  to  prove  its  name,  and  traced  the  route 
As  one  without  an  aim,  but  yet  a  thought 
That  seemed  an  aim,  and  later  proved  as  such, 
(For.  aimless  quest  if  held  a  boon  of  mind, 
And  pressed  with  thought,  will  take  a  lucid  shape), 
Slow  led  me  on.    An  aimless  aim  was  now 
A  settled  plan.    Adventures  on  the  way 
My  eye  should  woo,  that  once  my  hailed  return 
Might  charm  an  hour,  and  win  me  partial  fame. 
The  golden  sun  was  stealing  o'er  the  hilltops, 
And  piercing  thro'  the  fog-banks  curling  there, 
Soft  bathing  mount,  and  tree,  and  highest  rock, 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  shimmering  down  the  misty,  slantwise  view. 
Till  lost  amid  the  darkened  vale.  I  paused, 
And  fancy-wed,  let  play  the  wayward  thought. 

Thirty  and  nine  agone,  and  cotted  babe, 
I  helpless,  and  as  seeming  aimless  lived, 
A  tease  to  nurse,  a  father's  care,  but  mother! 
The  tears  may  start,  to  her  a  little  world, 
A  little  world  of  hope,  a  castled  clime, 
A  pictured  vale,  a  panoramic  view, 
That  turned  kaleidoscope  in  hand  oi  child 
Of  fullest  fancy,  many  a  fairy  tale, 
And  loveliest  hope,  could  hold  no  rivaling  scene. 
Her  ideality  challenged  mightiest  brain, 
And  form  of  strength  a  Hercules  would  love, 
A  perfect  man!    But  I,  as  many  a  one, 
Slowly  matured,  and  gained  my  destined  shape, 
A-like  a  thousand  more  that  lived  and  died, 
That  live  and  breathe  to-day  in  hundred  towns; 
But  she  no  art  to  ken  the  general  trait 
Was  much  the  same;  and  thus  she  drew  a  future: 

"I  loved  your  father,  since  he  seemed  the  man 
Best  suited  to  my  temperament.    He  led  /• 

Me  to  the  altar;  love  and  hope  were  there, 
In  golden  train.    The  days  were  in  their  flight. 
You  graced  our  home,  a  sunlight  sweetest  shed, 
And  sand  by  sand  slow  graded  toward  the  man, 
Until  I  find  you  gone  beyond  my  rod, 
My  constant  care;  but  now,  ere  you  shall  roam 
From  home,  and  lose  yourself  in  busy  life, 
Lead  Mabel  to  the  altar;  armed  thus, 
Your  walk  will  be  upon  a  higher  plane." 

St!  Master!  Ringing  in  my  ears  the  tones, 
As  hollow  murmurs  of  a  dreaming  brain; 
An  empty  sound  that  seemed  a  tone  of  thought; 
A  memory  of  a  long  forgotten  hour 
That  held  a  vanished  form;  a  time  revered 
And  hated  in  the  same  sad  thought;  for  love 
Is  ever  truest,  best,  when  left  to  self, 
And  more  a  meed,  a  boon,  to  me,  than  plans 
An  anxious  mother  shaped.    'Twere  well,  mayhap, 
To  follow  such  a  law  that  holds  this  quest: 

Two  neighboring  families,  farmers  well-to-do, 
Within  the  dark  and  misty  vault  of  time, 
Bent  o'er  our  cots, — fair  Mabel's  cot  and  mine, — 
And  master  judges  of  our  coming  years, 
Pronounced  our  earliest  youthhood's  doom.    Their  voices 
E'en  echoing  now,  then  framed  the  words:  "The  babes, 
And  fairer  never  shone,"— but  time  has  wrought 


JOHN  ELMEE. 

Its  changes! — "later  on  shall  hold  our  lands 
Inviolate  by  stranger  touch.    A  wedding, 
Early  as  meet,  shall  bind  them  heart  to  heart, 
And  life  to  iife,  and  land  to  land;  and  death, 
Our  latest  guest,  shall  take  us  from  the  world, 
And  their  world,  with  no  sad  regret  that  they 
Are  gone  astray  in  Folly's  path.    They  grow, 
The  lily  leaning  on  the  thornless  rose; 
A  flower  he,  and  she  a  fairer  flower." 

A  fairy  picture,  but  the  fairies?    I — 
I,  old  and  bearded;  she,  fair  Mabel— where? 
The  years  were  years  thafrcould  not  last.    They  died, 
Our  mothers,  leaving  us  a  father's  care, 
Who  married  ere  our  blooming  youth  had  bloomed 
To  womanhood  and  manhood's  time.    They  sold; 
They  moved  to  distant  climes,  and  Arden-like, 
Then  took  their  chance  of  wave  and  wind.    She,  I, 
Evangeline  and  Gabriel,  then  asunder 
Were  harshly  torn!— to  meet  at  death?    The  thought; 
But  we  were  none  the  loser;  all  our  love, 
A  thing  of  ice,  was  cold  as  money's  love; 
A  bartered  boon,  that  grew  an  ugly  shape. 
Liberty  or  death  if  mind  a  mind  at  all, 
Freedom  of  love  else  madness  in  the  brain. 
Chameleon  love  needs  chameleon  law;— 
But  ours?    "Here!  love  that  thing!"  a  gnawing  power 
That  sapped  the  shaping  vines  of  love,  and  hate 
Arose  above  the  ashes  there;  and  when, 
And  when  we  waved  our  last  adieu  as  slow 
The  ox-teams  raised  a  farther-growing  dust, 
A  statue's  smile  some  altar-frame  might  grace, 
Empaled  our  marble  looks;  and  thus  the  hearts 
That  might  have  grown  to  love,  were  turned  to  hate! 
I  did  not  hate  her  a»  I  might  a  man, 
'Twas  rather  hate  that  hates  a  critic;  a 
Half  pity  and  half  hate;  or  love,  and  like, 
And  pity,  all  commingled,  with  a  shred 
Of  deepest  admiration,  held  a  secret. 

The  rolling  wains  in  opposite  ways  a  bend 
Had  hid;  and  all  my  mother's  plans  were  naught! 
No  marriage;  no  united  lands  and  lives! 
Father  had  sold,  and  they  had  sold,  and  we, 
But  children  yet,  were  bundled  off  as  goods; 
The  later  weddings,  later,  better  prospects, 
Were  teemful thoughts,  and  we  but  secondary! 
A  greater  change  than  years  had  known;  but  time 
Made  never  a  halt,  and  onward  flew  as  yore, 
And  brought  a  harvest  full  of  woe,  of  trouble. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

A  modest  life  with  e'en  as  modest  thought, 
Had  swayed  too  long  for  such  a  sudden  change  ;„ 
And  loss,  and  woe,  and  care,  usurped  the  place 
Of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace.    A  quick  divorce, 
An  early  tomb,  and  naught  to  time  but— but— 
A  second  wife  !  an  Elmer's  bones,  a  son, 
A  fair  lost  Mabel !  and  a  sire  in  age. 

O,  Master  !  were  I  dumb  as  you,  there  were 
No  past ;  no  pregnant  memories  full  of  woe  I 

And  now  the  town  where  time  had  made  me  great, 
Was  grown  a  double  town  ;  that  large  hotel 
Is  monster  to  its  sire,  and  frowns  a  king 
Among  its  lesser  friends.    I  turn  me  back 
And  note  the  larger  view  that  years  have  won 
From  nothingness.    My  childhood's  view,  my  boyhood's,. 
All,  all  is  shapeless  made  by  vast  usurpers, 
The  rotten,  paintless  steeple,  dirty  schoolhouse, 
And  pigmy  town-hall,  are  a  memory  gone. 
"I  am  no  more  a  child  !"    My  mother's  words : 

"I  named  you  John  the  day  that  saw  you  live, 
John  Elmer  being  to  my  thought  a  name 
That  had  the  ring,  the  sound,  as  'John,  John  Elmer, 
His  name  decks  many  a  rhyme.' "    But  time,  and  harslv 
Had  turned  me  from  the  place  ere  boyhood's  play 
Was  off  for  thought ;  and  thus  my  name  and  power 
Were  lost  to  all  my  native  town.    I  shone 
In  other  fields,  'mong  stranger  thought  and  ways 
And  won  a  fame  where  dearth  of  greatness  reigned, 
Like  many  a  bard  of  modern  time.    The  taper 
Once  shone  the  king  of  lights ;  yet  time  has  won 
A  brighter  flame  ;  but  both  their  places,  yet  careful ! 
Don't  place  them  side  by  side,  nor  ages'  poetry. 
An  age  is  great  for  lack  of  greatness.    Look  : 
An  age  of  poetry,  age  of  painters'  art ; 
An  age  of  sculpture,  age  of  oratory ; 
An  absence,  dearth  of  one,  each  renders  greater. 
The  great  Elizabethan  galaxy  ! 

And  where  my  verse  ?    But  now  in  dearth  of  Poesy, 
My  light  may  shine.    In  dearth  of  Angeloes 
A  lesser  one  is  great.    I  mind  the  time 
In  early  boyhood's  flighty  hours,  how  Mabel 
A  garland  greenest,  freshest  grown,  in  girl-like 
Simplicity,  placed  o'er  my  brow,  a  glimmering 
Of  that  translucent  light  that  time  and  hope 
"Should  win  from  kenless  glooms  ahead.    But  1 1— 
"Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eyes, " 
John  Elmer  poet-born  !— And  yet  the  picture 
A  dream,  and  overdrawn,  won  passing  fame, 


JOHN  ELMER. 

And  lent  an  Eden  to  the  varied  view. 

Ah!  that  May  morning  !— this  May  morning !  Time, 

Oh,  cruel  god  !  Oh,  cruel  king  !  to  rob, 

To  rob  the  every  joy  of  present  sweetness, 

And  memory's  god  alone  to  hold  the  scene  I 

Thy  will,  sleek  Master  !  May  thy  clattering  hoofs 
Drown  all  reverberations  of  the  past ! 
And  this  May  morn  attuned  of  woeless  bird, 
Keclaim  my  time-retracing  thought,  and  Nature 
In  all  her  glory,  win  me  to  herself. 

The  road,  a  catacomb  to  stranger  view, 
Held  parallel  with  voiceful  stream  a  space, 
But  short,  a  babe  upon  the  verge  of  steps, 
As  sudden  turned  and  vanished  in  a  bend. 

The  song  of  waters,  murmurs  of  the  breeze, 
The  singing  pine  in  deathf  ul  tone,  and  constant 
Soft  buzzings  of  a-many  a  varied  insect, 
The  manifold  sweet  voices  of  calm  Nature ; 
All,  all  a  tinkling,  lulling,  soothing  sound, 
More  softly  fell  than  poets'  thoughts,  and  won 
A  live  equestrian  statue,  till  a  noise 
Of  slow  approaching  wheels  resounded  near ; 
And  brief,  the  bend  where  seemed  an  ended  road, 
Disclosed  a  loaded  wain,  slow  lumbering  on. 

I  hated  her  ?  and  yet  the  forceful  words  : 
"Does  Mabel  live  ?"    This  gnarled  man  a  shred, 
(This  man  that  tops  the  hay,)  of  her  or  hers  ? 
"Good  morning,  sir,"  and  when  the  answer  fell, 
A  thousand  Mabel-fancies  drowned  my  brain. 
"And  is  her  sire  alive  in  age  ?"  the  query 
In  fancy  fell.    "And  is  she  married  yet  ?" 
"And  what  her  name  ?"    Yan  Winkle-like  the  questions. 
I  only  said :  "You  may  have  known  the  Elmers  ?" 

I  felt  his  home  was  hereabout,  and  thus 
Could  feel  the  farms  were  patent  to  his  thought 
For  longest  miles  around.    A  death  next  door 
My  city  home,  and  know  it  not,  till  hearse 
And  black-streamed  train  wind  slowly  from  the  curb. 
But  here,  and  farther  than  the  eye  might  reach, 
The  funeral's  cause  is  known  with  cease  of  pulse. 
A  city  !  golden  thy  seclusion  !  Country  ! 
Thy  garret  secret's  known  !    Thou  know'st,  O  Muse 
Thy  home's  in  busiest  cities'  scenes  !  thy  dreams, 
Of  rural  town  and  rustic  view  !    If  now 
This  stranger  bearded  swain  were  met  in  city's 
.Streets,  "Elmers,  do  you  know  them?"  were  the  last, 
The  farthest  thought ;  but  now  the  country's  great 
Encyclopaedia  was  above  the  hay. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE.* 

Without  a  formal  style  I  might  inquire  r 

"And  how  are  crops?"    "No  drouth  this  season ?"    Always' 

A  quick  and  ready  answer  ;  but  at  home, — 

A  brdwnstone  front ;  an  aged  man  descends 

The  marble  steps,  "and  who  resides  next  door  ?" 

A  sinister  glance,  and  "Don't  know,"  and  is  gone. 

He  did  not  know.    "Yes,  crops  are  well.    No  drouth  ',— 

A  stranger  hereabout  ?"    "And  yes,  and  no. 

I  lived  here  twenty  years  agone.    The  Elmers — ' 

"Jock  Elmer  ?"    "Yes."    "And  there  hard  by,  his  neighbor,' .. 

Sweet  Mabel  Martin's  folks,  the  twin-like  families  ; — 

And  plans  they  had.    The  babes  would  wed  in  teens, 

And  knit  the  name  to  name,  and  land  to  land  ; 

But  time  with  venomed  tooth,  short  left  his  mark.; 

The  mothers  died  ;  the  fathers  wed.    The  farms 

Were  sold.    'Tis  said  the  later  wives  were  vain  ; 

Had  city  ways  and  thoughts ;  and  country  life 

No  charms  for  them.    The  farmhouse  has  a  charm — 

Adventurers  they  were  and  wed  for  money, 

And  in  a  word  they  broke  two  hearts  and  homes, 

The  lovers  separated  ;  and  at  last 

Jock  Elmer  found  his  grave  !    And  poor  old  Martin — " 

(Sweet  Mabel's  father  !)  "and  his  child—"    "Oh,  help  I? 

And  quick  the  May-morn  air  was  rent  with  cries, 

And  round  the  bend  a  steed  in  maddest  flight, 

Came  dashing  with  a  two-wheeled  chaise,  a  lady 

Wildly  upon  the  seat,  imploring  aid. 

'Twas  done  !    As  quick  as  light  my  Master  sped- 
In  hot  pursuit,  the  farmer  leaving  there 
In  blank  amaze,  with  Martin's  annals  still 
Echoing  upon  his  lips.    Adventures  now 
A  Beadle's  art  no  power  to  trace ;  and  yet 
The  freak  of  bard's  imagination  won 
Its  incident  outside  a  Thackeray's  classic 
Page,  yet  the  Vicar  classic  full  as  strange 
In  Wakefield  incident ;  for  not  the  say, 
But  how  'tis  said,  shall  win  the  name  and  fame. 

My  frothing  black  was  flying  with  the  wind, 
And  flew  my  fancy  over  all  the  past, 
As  lightning  steed,  or  drowning  man  when  death 
Engrasps  him  far  below  the  rippling  wave. 

"Sweet,  naughty  Mabel !  you  and  I  are  one, 
Our  baby  hearts  beat  out  the  little  tune 
Ere  thinking  thought  had  won  a  niche  of  brain,. 
And  wed  we  were  as  sure  as  wedding  morn 
Shall  steal  along  with  time,  and  rear  the  priest 
Before  our  trembling  teens,  'And  thou  art  one  t'- 
As  solemn  say  as,  'Woe  is  me,'  and  shape 


JOHN  ELMER. 

A  growing  scene  for  Eden  good,  or  Hades 

Bad.    Mabel  hate  me  ?    No,  the  harsh  bequest. 

Forget  me  as  thy  cotted  bridegroom  love, 

Then  all  thy  heart  shall  throb  for  me.    But,  no  !— " 

"I  won't  love  from  a  thought  of  force,  for  mine 
Shall  be  a  Juliet's  love ;  you  not  my  Romeo  ! 
No  stolen  kiss ;  no  stolen  midnight  meeting ; 
No  arm  about  your  neck,  you  hanging  bold 
From  balcony's  dangerous  rail,  your  eyes  the  stars 
That  light  the  misty  sky,  and  guide  my  love 
Unto  the  love  of  loves,  and  make  me  tremble 
For  fear  the  light,  too  strong,  should  teach  my  father's 
Eye,  nurse's,  or  a  vain  detective's,  all 
Our  tryst."    "Oh,  Mabel !  hast  thou  read  a  fairy 
Tale  ?    Nothing  but  a  wayward  brain  could  draw 
So  strained  a  picture."    "And  I  kiss  your  lip, 
But  nobody  cares.    'Tis  settled  love  that  comes 
A-like  a  purchased  team,  with  auction's  ring ; 
Expected  !    Too  trite,  John  ;  love's  sweetest  found 
In  stolen  interviews,  amid  Arcadian 
Scenes,  father's  tread  continual  fear,  or  nurse's, 
With  jealous  glance  ;  for  love  is  made  of  stolen 
Joys,  sweet  forbidden  kisses  'neath  the  moon, 
With  every  bush  an  eye.    Resume  thy  heart, 
Else  love  and  lover-like,  slow  steal  along 
The  moonlit  moors,  and  trembling  'neath  my  window, 
As  hungrily  watch  my  wild,  adventurous 
Descent  in  treacherous  basket,  as  the  hound 
That  waits  the  beck  that  starts  him  on  the  chase, 
The  cageless  hare  already  in  the  field." 

"The  love  of  dreams,  sweet  Mabel  Martin  !  Father, 
Yea,  mine  and  thine,  have  solemn  said  :  'They  grow 
For  one  another,  as  the  oak  for  ship, 
The  amaranthine  flower  for  love.    We  see 
As  one  that  wanders  thro'  a  beaten  path, 
And  knows  the  end.    'Twere  better  e'en  for  both, 
To  heed  the  wisdom  of  our  choice,  for  love 
Is  blind,  and  needs  a  clearer  gaze.    Love,  love 
That  picks  its  mate  has  more  of  wrong  than  right.' " 

"Pronounced  a-like  a  bartered  stock,  or  slave, 
With  never  a  thought  but  of  the  price  paid.    Mabel 
A  piece  of  merchandise  !  John,  never,  never  !" 

"And  yet  your  like  that  knows  no  love,  is  mine  ; 
In  truth,  I  like  you  as  I  would  a  friend ; 
A  sweet  familiar  face  ;  a  passing  view, 
Which  gone,  soon  flies  my  constant  thought,  and  leaves 
A  misty  vagueness  of  a  thing  that's  gone. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  we  might  have  loved  ;  not  strange. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Perhaps  e'en  now  'tis  more  than  like,  and  hate 
Of  cotted  bondage  makes  us  blind ;  for  love 
That's  shackled,  bound  by  law,  is  kin  of  serf 
That  likes  his  work,  but  pines  from  constant  straint. 
I  thought  your  face  a  pretty  face  till  years 
Of  wise  discretion  rose  in  view,  and  taught 
My  wild  Byronic  heart,  untamed  as  wilder 
Mazeppan  steed,  no  shackling  power  should  curb 
My  will,  my  love.    By  contraries  would  I  move, 
And  tho'  I  loved  my  maid,  the  world's  applause, 
All,  all  should  sink  before  the  power  that  bound 
My  will.    If  kings  would  shun  my  name,  then  I 
As  fast,  tho'  none  of  fame  were  mine.    Self-willed 
Is  love,  a  wayward  child,  but  oft  is  led 
Astray  from  varied  influence  ;  for  fame  ; 
A  name,  a  place,  and  lucre ;  but  a  love 
That  truly  seeks  its  mate,  nor  power  of  gold, 
Nor  power  of  place,  of  prince,  of  king,  of  earth, 
Can  thwart  its  aim,  or  blind  its  gaze."    "A  lecture." 

"But  common  facts  ;  the  aims  and  ends  of  love  ; 
Its  ways,  its  forms,  its  styles,  that  none  can  feel, 
Till  Cupid-god  has  winged  his  honeyed  dart ; 
And  yet  it  seems  a  lecture  to  my  maid  ?" 
"A  very  lecture  all  unspiced  of  love." 
"Then,  fairy  Mabel,  list  the  chivalrous  tale, 
In  Scottish  guise,  to  lend  the  fancy  strength, 
Commingled  with  a  touch  of  fact,  that  Muse 
Has  won  from  poesy's  teemful  art  in  climes 
Not  native  to  her  reign,  but  Friendship's  claims 
Permit  her  welcome  maid  a  niche  with  all 
That  woo  the  muses'  lyre  to  deathless  verse." 

"Beguile  the  hour  with  Fancy's  tale  to  History 
Wed;  Mabel  open  ear  if  love  prevail." 

"A  knightly  tale  from  Fancy  framed,  in  youth 
Of  love  and  Posey's  art,  enwon  my  thought ; 
Engaged  my  straightened  hours  a  month  on  month, 
Till  twelve  were  in  their  flight.    And  will  you  hear 
This  lovelorn  tale  of  Spenser's  knightliest  days, 
In  modern  thought,  and  language  of  the  hour  ? 
The  Tapster's  tale  ;  the  Swineherd's,  or  the  Knight's, 
Might  give  it  name.    John  Elmer's  shall  it  be  ? 
Now,  Mabel !"    "I  would  hear  your  voice  in  knightly 
Lore,  knightly  tale.    A-many  a  time  its  tone 
Has  wooed  my  wayward  ear  from  vulgar  chime, 
'And  lent  me  Knighthood's  pregnant  days,  or  bard 
Of  Avon's.    But  a  teemful  like,  and  softest 
Fancy  enpictured  half  the  scene,  like  poems 
Of  modern  make,  that  seem  to  say  the  whole  ; 


JOHN  ELME&. 

But  unimaginative  reader  sees 

The  fleshless  skeleton  alone,  so  much 

Is  left  to  thought.    An  empty  kind  of  verse 

Enmarks  our  modern  bard.    Go  back  a  century  ; 

'The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave  ;' 

A  poem  in  a  line."    "You  are  exacting ; 

Each  age  its  style.    The  giant  intellect 

Has  been  supplanted  by  scholastic  art ; 

To-day  'tis  highest  culture  ;  yesterday, 

The  giant  brain.    My  Lamb  is  out  of  caste 

In  modern  time ;  my  modern  bard  the  like 

In  ancient  time.    A  nation's  history  may 

Repeat  itself  ;  but  twins  are  not  alike  ; 

A  difference,  after  all.    The  Wakefield  Vicar 

Says  :  'Handsome  is  that  handsome  does,'  and  true 

To  general  glance,  but  not  to  critical." 

"Your  giant  Cook,*  and  not  your  Romeo, 
Has  won  your  latest  thought.    But  lecturing 
Was  ever  chief  est  trait,  a  Johnson  giant 
Of  later  time."    "You  laugh  because  I  seem 
Matured.    America's  Rydal  bard  has  never 
Approached  his  Thanatopsis ;  Harold's  Lay 
An  early  work,  but  faultless  in  his  pages. 
Genius  is  found  more  oft  in  youth,  than  later." 

"Then  not  my  cotted  love  of  twenty  summers, 
But  gray  beard  age  in  golden  prime,  of  saws^ 
And  potent  thought  possessed?    Avaunt,  my  sage ; 
If  lover,  Blackstone,  Bacon,  Locke,  replaced 
By  Avon's  matchless  lovetale,t  else  a  Grandcourt 
And  Gwendolen  love,  an  icy  taing  too  cold 
To  live.    If  knightly  lay  shall  hold  as  cold 
A  love  as  all  your  May-morn  talk,  then  dead 
Ere  public  glance  shall  know  its  style."    "The  Lady 
Of  Dardale  was  the  name  the  lay  assumed, 
And  tireless  Fancy  won  a  thousand  verses, 
Thro'  all  too  pregnant  hours  of  day,  and  time 
That  gave  it  birth,  soon  gave  it  death.    The  flames 
Enmixed  the  dedication,  cantos,  all, 
In  thankless  air,  and  wreathing,  aimless  smoke. 
A  master  hand  had  struck  the  harp,  and  discords 
Loud  jarred  along  the  tottering  line,  and  mimic 
Knighthood  soon  passed  as  once  it  came,  'unwept, 
Unhonored,  and  unsung.'    A  task  to  let 
It  go,  my  youthful  love,  my  boyish  fancy, 
With  tumbled  castle,  parched  moat ;  and  yet 
Its  skeleton  lights  and  shades  flit  in  and  out 
Among  my  later  thought,  in  ever-varying 

*Rev.  Joseph  Cook,  of  Boston,  Mass.    fRomeo  and  Juliet. 


10  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Train.    Chaos  and  I,  dull  twins  in  main,  moved  arm 

In  arm  a  day  by  day,  a  week  by  week, 

Like  shaping  man  in  childhood's  hour,  till  time 

And  tide  diverged  our  path,  and  chaos-youthhood 

Stood  out  a  shadow  of  the  past.    Our  twinship 

Gone,  teemf ul  error,  poesy's  mimic  shade 

Stood  plainly  outlined,  things  of  monster  shape, 

Where  now  and  then,  as  on  the  stage  of  life, 

A  beauty  flashed  athwart  the  dark.    The  scene 

Was  laid  in  pregnant  thought.    A  deep  and  tangled 

Wood,  brook-knelled,  mountain-bounded,  held  a  form.' 

Of  loveliest  mien,  e'en  sweet  as  morning  flower 

By  Nature's  hand  twined  o'er  a  garden  wall, 

Artless  and  beautiful !    Conception  is 

Ever  the  master  power  of  any  brain; 

A  Raphael's  art  a  daub  to  picture  brain 

Has  drawn.    A-many  a  bard  in  thought,  but  few 

In  execution.    So  the  Lay  ;*  a  getn 

In  thought,  a  Scott  to  make  it  verse.    But  Nature, 

A  miser  in  Poesy's  gifts,  had  flashed  a  ray 

Athwart  my  brain  as  faint  and  shadowy  as 

A  will-o'-the-wisp,  but  redolent  of  power 

To  lead  me  on,  until  the  musef  ul  tones 

Of  inmost  music,  won  my  heart  and  hand, 

And  ere  I  woke  from  tangled  dream  of  night, 

A  Knightly  tale  had  flashed  and  gone.    'Twere  thus  :. 

*  A  poem  of  a  thousand  verses  destroyed. 


Henry  A.  Walker. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 


"Lo !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 

For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye.- 

Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days  : 

But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways." 

—Keats. 

"Old  is  the  tale  I  tell,  and  yet  as  youn^ 
And  warm  with  life  as  ever  minstrel  sung : 
Two  lovers  fill  it,— two  fair  shapes— two  souls, 
Sweet  as  the  last  for  whom  the  death-bell  tolls." 
"Hero  and  Leander."— Leigh  Hunt. 


DEDICATION  TO  HENRY.* 

Thou  seraph  boy  babe,  whose  unnumbered  years 

Have  found  no  reck  in  the  sand-glass  of  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  in  love  and  tears, 

These  lowly  verses  couched  in  feebler  rhyme 
Than  ancient  bard  of  minstrel  sway  has  known ; 

But  thou  reck'st  not  the  Muses  soft  would  tear 
Me  from  mechanic  art,  and  all  alone, 

Allure  me  to  the  Shrine  of  Delphi's  fair. 

Long  ere  thy  first  glance  met  the  smiling  day, 

And  you  a  doubt  to  my  life  as  my  fame, 
A  something  o'er  me  held  a  subtle  sway, 

In  embryon  puzzlement,  till  soft  there  came 
A  museful-toned  voice  thro'  my  musing  mind, 

And  taught  me  scenes  where  heavenly  music  played,. 
And  e'er  lived,  to  their  dulcet  harps  resigned, 

A  fairy  band  in  seraph  wings  arrayed. 

*  The  Author's  son  of  three  months. 


12  TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Poesy  from  father  to  son  ne'er  descends ; 

No  Homer  a  Homerian  bard  has  left ; 
Ko  Milton's  verse  from  Milton's  son  ascends ; 

We  lose  the  Shakespeare,  and  of  him  bereft, 
'Tis  vain  we  look  for  other  of  that  line  : 

The  Art  is  strange,  and  wayward  is  the  child ; 
And  he  who  is  lured  to  her  golden  mine, 

Finds  more  of  testy  babe  than  ever  smiled. 

But  ere,  my  sweet  babe,  the  will-o'-the-wisp 

Of  my  phantasmagoric  fancy  came 
Into  the  clear  light,  and  soft  as  your  lisp, 

Told  me  what  'twas  to  be  a  child  of  fame, 
In  hopeless  fetters  of  aerial  arms 

•Was  I  bound,  and  when  I  would  tear  away, 
More  numerous  the  sky  in  formful  charms 

Was  peopled.    Heavenly,  heavenly  was  their  sway. 

So,  to  you  in  your  innocency  sweet, 

Whilst  yet  the  mother's  from  the  father's  hand 
Thou  reck'st  not,  (like  is  friend's  and  parent's  greet,) 

I  dedicate  the  soft  aerial  band 
That  gathered  in  my  fancy,  and  in  verse 

Have  found  joys  for  me  poets  only  know, 
And  made  me  in  a  knightly  lay  rehearse 

In  soft  imagination's  matchless  flow. 

May  thy  life,  sweet  Hope  !  gain  as  high  a  mark 

As  my  imagination  rose  for  this  ; 
And  when  thy  life  is  ebbing,  and  the  Dark 

Is  o'er  thee,  feel  again  thy  mother's  kiss  ! 
Let  Fancy  paint  thy  cradle-house  that  first 

Was  thy  soft  shelter,  and  see  the  sweet  face 
That  hovered  over  thee,  and  fond  rehearsed 

H  er  mother-love,  with  mother's  power  to  trace. 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Oh,  charm  of  verse  !  oh,  charm  of  song  ! 
And  ever  theme  that  did  belong 
To  searchless  past,  or  ever  old, 
Of  newness  shorn,  upon  the  wold 
A  frayed,  a  warp-bare  tale,  a  thing 
Where  beauty's  charms  shall  vainly  cling  ? 
If  poet's  eye  shall  wander  there  ; 
If  poet's  life  with  death  shall  pair ; 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  ED  ALE.  13 

If  poet  crowned  of  Nature's  queen 

Shall  ken  the  view,  what  is,  hath  been, 

A  thousand  beauties  start  to  view 

With  ever-varying  beauty's  hue : 

E'en  deathless  bards  have  sung  in  vain 

The  hue,  the  style,  the  love,  the  strain, 

The  tomb,  the  grave,  the  light,  the  shade, 

The  every  view  the  skies  have  made ; 

The  flowers,  lilies,  Edens,  grots, 

The  pansy,  rose,  forget-me-nots, 

The  dewy  eves,  the  morning-glory, 

The  hundred  things  in  verse  and  story, 

The  Lalla  Rookhs,  the  Harold  lays, 

The  Edens  lost,  grand  Knighthood's  days, 

The  Churchyard  tales.    A  thousand  ways    • 

To  say  them  o'er .    And  ages  yet 

Shall  touch  the  theme.    Shall  time  forget  ? 

If  bard  shall  own  no  native  flame, 

But  scholar's  art  shall  shape  his  strain ; 

But  love  that  painted  pictures  here, 

A  thousand  beauties  shall  appear, 

If  Nature  sweep  the  magic  lyre, 

And  flame  that  points  is  nature's  fire. 

The  tale  were  old,  the  theme  its  Chief  !* 

Shall  later  bard  turn  laureled  leaf  ? 

And  love  a  sweet,  a  nameless  charm, 

The  Lay's  excuse ;  no  world's  alarm     * 

To  daunt  the  Muse.    A  Christabel 

In  fameless  gloom  if  bell  shall  knell 

Its  death !    A  joy  that  poets  know 

Hath  cure,  hath  balm ;  a  god  below 

That  steals  the  myriad  tints  that  glow 

In  seeming  dullest  thing,  and  flow 

In  riveless  train,  where  bard  were  tost 

In  hundred  splendors,  drowned,  lost, 

Till  fame  and  name,  the  world  forgot, 

The  cares  of  life,  the  battles  fought 

By  bravest  heroes ;  frauds  that  sway 

The  party  strife ;  the  dull,  the  gay, 

Commercial  theme,  the  newer  star,t 

The  Nations'  strife,}:  the  mailed  Czar.§ 

Thu  dream  is  gone,  and  loudly  swell 

The  vulgar  arts,  the  din,  the  knell 

Of  busy  life,  the  pulse  of  gain ! — 

The  bard  a— Man  ?    Delusive  train ! 

The  sky  a  world,  and  dullest  thing, 

*  Scott,    f  Conkling,  etc.    }  The  momentous  war  between  Turkey  and  Russia  in 
H//7-78,  etc.    §  Alexander  II,  Emperor  of  Russia. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

No  fays,  no  fairies !    Yet  there  cling 

The  broken  shreds  of  poesy's  dream ; 

Not  stars,  but  gaslights  palely  gleam ! 

Emilias,  Henris,  Lacys,  all 

But  specters  now !    The  shadowed  wall 

Their  pictures !    Knighthood's  lay  was  wrought 

While  pictured  fancy  pictures  caught 

From  various  clime,  and  age,  and  date, 

And  lent  a  charm  that  has  no  mate ; 

Anachronism,  sweet  poesy's  charm, 

And  Michael  Scotts,  tho'  death  shall  balm, 

May  grace  a  lay.     The  school-taught  rule, 

In  strictest  law,  a  rhymster's  tool ; 

For  Nature's  bard  shall  shape  his  law, 

No  other  hand  the  lines  shall  draw ! 

A  general  scene,  a  varied  view, 

As  lark  that  soars  the  arching  blue ; 

A  bulbul's  flight  as  whim  shall  take 

Him  from  the  spray  that  holds  his  mate ; 

A  winding  stream  thro'  light  and  shade, 

Where  flowers,  weeds,  have  eddying  strayed, 

The  Tale  is  such  I    A  poet's  soul 

Has  heard  sweet  Muse,  and  numbers  stole 

A  richness,  sweetness  not  in  verse, 

'Twere  vain  indeed,  such  strains  rehearse ! 


INTKODTJCTION  TO  CANTO  THE  FIKST. 

The  .Castle's  ruins ! — lovers ! — where  ? — 

The  Lord  Graville !— Ah  I  never  there 

Again  their  splendor,  beauty,  sway! 

Never  again  the  lightsome  day, 

The  mellow  eve  that  shed  its  dew 

On  turret,  tower,  moon-wed  view ; 

For  gone  the  lovers,  gone  the  scene, 

No  shred  to  tell' what  there  hath  been ; 

And  gone  the  sire,  and  gone  the  knight, 

And  gone  the  forest  where  the  light 

Of  stealing  moon  won  look  of  maid, 

The  bubbling  brook,  the  knights  that  strayed, 

The  quarrel,  fray,  the  flight,  pursuit, 

A  whelmed  father,  moveless,  mute ! 

Gone,  gone,  yet  mystic  Maid  has  claimed 

Their  lives,  their  deeds,  and  not  ashamed, 

Has  limned  where  others  matchless  reigned, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE.  15 

And  drawn  from  Knighthood's  gaudy  scene, 

A  vanished  view,  yet  starlights  gleam,— 

Has  torn  the  tale  from  perished  life, 

Has  wrought  in  peace,  unmeasured  strife ; 

The  Henris,  Lacys,  mount  the  steed, 

Yet  live  again ;  the  grave  is  freed 

Of  warrior,  knight,  the  bard,  the  chief, 

A  page  turned  back,  a  folded  leaf, 

And  once  again  the  harp,  the  lute, 

The  bashful  love,  e'en  modest,  mute ; 

And  present  lost  in  living  past, 

The  mind  is  thralled ;  the  bugle's  blast 

Sounds  not  the  line,  the  empty  verse, 

'Tis  bugler's  self  the  notes  rehearse ; 

We  mark  him  cross  the  linn,  the  vale, 

The  castle  hides  his  form.    The  gale 

Is  strong  against  the  tower.    The  knights 

Quick  cross  the  moat,  their  forms  like  lights 

In  farther  gloom  are  lost.    There  starts 

A  palmer  down  the  vale ;  departs 

A  warrior,  knight,  a  chief.    'Tis  life, 

Its  ways,  its  hues,  its  shadows,  strife. 

Emilia  saunters  o'er  the  grass ; 

A  flower  plucks.    There  come,  there  pass, 

The  lights  and  shades  of  love.    The  Knight , 

De  Lacy,  trods  the  hall.    A  light 

Has  marked  his  eye.    'Tis  strange  withal.' 

'Tis  life.    The  picture  came,  did  fall ; 

'Twere  vain  it  sued  for  lasting  place ; 

Yet  read,  the  flowers  and  weeds  may  trace 

A  scene  that  some  shall  love,  the  few 

May  love  and  hate.    That  all  were  true ! 

But  History  ever  faultless  found 

When  Fancy  twines  her  laurel  round ! 


CANTO  THE  FIKST. 
i. 

The  scene  was  sweet  as  loveliest  eve, 
Where  love  might  woo,  and  win,  and  grieve, 
And  heart  to  heart  the  lover's  tale 
Might  softly  say,  and  none  assail. 
The  arching  trees  that  stooped  above ; 
The  winding  brook  that  sang  of  love ; 
A  mellow  shade  on  tree  and  rock, 
No  dream  that  later  scenes  would  shock, 


16  £HE  LAD  Y  OF  DABDALE. 

Fell  sweetly  there,  and  wooed  to  song, 
Won  heart  to  heart,  no  tinge  of  wrong ; 
And  many  a  bird  in  softest  note, 
Sang  there  of  love,  and  peace,  and  hope, 
An  Eden  scene  the  whole  combined, 
A  picture  true  of  love  resigned ; 
No  fleck  to  mar  the  lovely  whole, 
Where  softest  thoughts  as  sweetly  stole 
As  siren  song  to  heart  of  him 
Who  feels  a  fate,  a  something  grim, 
Yet  sweetest  made,  and  full  of  joy, 
As  bounding  heart  of  Paphian  boy, 
Who  sank  to  sleep  on  Beauty's  breast, 
No  thought  of  life  but  he  were  blest, 
And  all  the  world  were  Eden  round, 
With  caroling  bird  the  only  sound 

That  broke  the  silence  there, 
And  stole  his  soul  as  Lethe  found 

A  honeyed  stream  and  fair. 

n. 

A  haunt  no  hand  to  mar,  to  shock, 
Not  e'en  the  winds,  the  soft  siroc, 
A  nook  for  beauty,  love-eyed  maid, 
The  tale  of  Eros,  heart  that  strayed 
From  native  bosom,  found  its  king 
In  matchless  youth,  seolian  string 
That  sounded  soft,  yet  truest  there, 
For  stone  of  moss,  the  balmy  air, 
The  tree,  the  brook,  the  mavis  note, 
Told  plain  that  love  was  not  remote, 
And  yet  my  graybeard  .'—mother  there  !— 
My  drifting  child  ! — the  scene  as  fair 
As  when  thy  love  met  love  in  tryst, 
And  babe  was  not,  yet  lips  that  kist, 
Told  well  the  days  that  love  might  know 
In  wedded  bliss,  tho'  born  of  woe ; 
But  age  no  glow,  no  youthful  flame, 
No  faultless  fancy,  scenes  are  tame 
That  once  were  matcnless  as  the  bow 
That  arches  o'er  this  world  of  woe. 
Thy  minds  may  paint  the  glowing  past 
Ere  lots  together  fell,  were  cast, 
Ere  priest,  the  babe,  the  wedded  years, 
Had  lent  their  joy,  their  woe,  their  tears, 
The  stone,  the  brook,  the  arching  trees, 
Patches  of  sky,  the  laded  breeze, 
The  thousand  scenes  that  crowd  the  view 


THE  LAD Y  OF  DARDALE.  17 

Where  love  is  king,  is  fleckless,  true ; 
And  yet,  and  yet,  the  view  is  changed, 
The  glowing  thought  by  age  estranged, 
The  brook  the  same,  the  stone  is  there, 
Yet  not  divinely  glowing  fair, 
While  memory  paints  the  fleeting  view, 
The  verse  shall  own  the  shape,  the  hue, 
That  graced  the  scene  ere  locks  were  gray, 
And  earliest  love  had  lost  its  sway. 

in. 

The  mountains  round  with  castled  top, 
Fell  on  the  eye  with  grimest  shock, 
For  musing  mind  could  picture  there 
The  Highland  war,  the  Lowland's  share, 
The  deeds  of  daring  by  the  brave, 
The  hardy  men  that  feared  no  grave, 
But  met  the  foe,  and  hand  to  hand 
Made  valor  win  or  lose  the  land. 
No  hidden  form  with  reaching  gun, 
And  braveless  war  unbravely  won, 
But  face  to  face,  as  death  to  death, 
With  kissing  helms,  and  breath  to  breath, 
The  sturdy  Highland  brave  was  found ; 
But  Lowland  foe  was  on  the  ground,       g  * 
As  brave  of  heart,  no  soul  of  fear, 
The  maddened  force,  the  fiery  tear, 
The  beating  heart,  the  swaying  form, 
The  sturdy  tree  that  breasts  the  storm, 
Is  bent,  is  swayed ;  but  fate,  nor  arm, 
Had  power  to  daunt  with  scaring  harm, 
Each  man  a  force  that  wrould  not  move 
Till  power  and  might  that  seemed  of  Jove. 

Made  victor  of  the  foe, 
That  fought  for  country  and  its  love, 

Tho'  death  should  lay  him  low. 

IV. 

No  China's  wall  of  vasty  length 
Stretched  round  the  scene  in  giant  strength, 
But  mountains  vast  that  touched  the  sky, 
Rose  round  the  scene,  and  held  the  eye, 
In  roughest  beauty  there  did  vie 
With  softer  scenes,  where  clouds  did  fly, 
And  many  a  thing  of  loveliest  hue 
Caught  mellow  sweetness  from  the  blue, 
That  domed  the  vale,  the  hill,  the  mount, 
Arcadian  view  with  many  a  fount, 


18  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  lent  a  charm  that  tempts  the  eye, 

And  moves  the  heart  with  many  a  sigh. 

O  Scottish  scene  of  mount  and  vale ! 

O  varied  view  in  lovely  tale  ! 

Thy  castled  steeps  !  thy  poet  lakes ! 

Thy  every  scene  the  poet  makes ! 

How  easy  Burns  to  write  a  lay 

As  full  of  love  as  siren  day ! 

And  picture  dales,  and  vales,  and  hills, 

The  bonny  Doons,  and  laughing  rills, 

And  win  the  soul  and  melt  the  heart, 

And  eyes  with  teardrops  at  his  art ! 

Romantic  land  !  romantic  clime  ! 

Of  Knighthood's  lay,  and  Valor's  rhyme  I 

Where  are  thy  songster's  now  ! 
On  tomb  of  him  we  trace  the  vine  !  * 

At  both  the  weepers  bow  !  t 


Yet  Fancy's  eye  on  History's  page, 
May  call  to  life  the  bard,  the  sage, 
The  knighted  chief  remount  his  steed, 
And  charge  for  country  and  its  meed ; 
The  warrior  that  in  border  raid, 
Made  glory  shine,  and  cowards  fade, 
The  bard  that  twined  the  laurel  round  { 
The  brow  of  heroes  seldom  found ; 
The  feud-fires  blaze  where  borderers  fought 
For  home,  and  country,  and  the  Scot, 
Where  maids  and  matrons  lent  their  aid, 
A  fame  till  valor  ne'er  shall  fade, 
Threw  round  their  lovers  by  their  love, 
The  deed  of  arms  and  power  of  Jove, 
Won  from  the  sigh  of  love-eyed  maid, 
Who  fired  the  arm  that  victory  made, 
Or  matrons  with  their  sturdy  hearts, 
Who  filled  the  ranks  where  glory  starts, 
With  many  a  valiant  knight  and  true, 
Who  struck  for  fame  and  country,  too ; 
All,  all  may  rise  at  Fancy's  beck, 
And  win  a  glance,  a  poem  deck ; 
A  poet's  tale  is  never  old, 
A  Nature-scene  upon  the  wold 

That  lends  an  endless  charm, 
And  soothes  the  eve  that  vainly  rolled 

For  vales  of  golden  calm. 

*  Burns,    f  Burns  and  Scott.    I  Scott. 


THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE.  19 

VI. 

And  Bannockburn,  with  mighty  dead ! 
Shall  Memory  paint  thy  scenes  of  dread  ? 
Shall  heroes,  warriors,  marchmen,  all, 
Rise  at  her  beck  again  to  fall 
For  Scotland  and  her  glorious  name, 
And  on  the  field  re-win  their  fame  ? 
Shed  on'ce  again  the  foeman's  blood, 
That  mingled  theirs  in  surging  flood  ? 
Shall  Bruce  again  the  mighty  lead, 
And  Edward's  heroes  nobly  bleed, 
And  standard  fixed  on  bore-stone  proud 
Proclaim  a  kingdom's  warriors  bowed  ! 
Ah  !  vainly  vain  to  touch  the  past 
Where  mightiest  heroes  breathed  their  last ! 
And  Wallace,  Bruce,  and  followers  brave, 
Are  long  since  mouldered  in  the  grave  ! 
But  yet  remoteness  gives  the  view 
A  power  peculiar,  but  as  true ; 
And  lost  in  fancy's  loveliest  rays 
The  feud-fires  once  again  shall  blaze, 
The  warriors  meet,  the  bloody  frays 
Start  clear  and  plain  as  on  the  field 
The  bard  were  found.    The  trumpet  pealed, 
The  axes  rang,  and  "On,  and  on !" 
Breaks  from  his  lips,  as  thro'  the  storm 
Of  blows  and  thrusts,  he  presses  brave, 
Till  spade  has  oped  the  soulless  grave. 

VII. 

Mechanic  art  with  Nature's  aid, 

Has  manned  the  soul,  and  weakly  made 

The  lines  of  rhyme  that  mark  my  name, 

And  ape  the  glorious  mount  of  fame, 

No  hand  of  mine  shall  ever  stain, 

No  pen  of  mine  shall  e'er  profane ! 

The  highest  thoughts  from  poesy's  fane 

Are  won  to  heart,  and  steal  to  brain, 

And  he  who'd  reach  the  higher  goals, 

That  make  immortal  perfect  souls, 

Should  study  well  the  poet's  art 

Of  him  who  writes  from  fleckless  heart, 

For  here  the  choicest  gems  of  mind, 

In  choicest  language  choicely  mined, 

Shall  teach  the  thought  a  lovely  phrase, 

And  lend  it  wings  to  soar  the  ways 

Where  all  unsullied  Beauty  strays, 

And  wreathes  her  shrine  with  flowery  Mays ! 


20  THE  LADY  OFDABDALE. 

A  perfect  picture  wins  the  thought 
To  higher  vales,  where  beauties  caught 
From  high  Elysian  fields  of  light, 
Else  chiefest  there,  all  robed  in  white, 
And  grace  the  heart  with  purest  things,, 
That  artless  climb,  as  purely  clings 

As  seraph  round  the  babe, 
A  cherubim  with  snowy  wrings, 

That  God-like  souls  arrayed. 

VIII. 

An  Angelo  in  perfect  art, 

A  soothing  beauty  o'er  the  heart, 

That  teaches  calmness,  peace  of  mind, 

Which  coarser  pictures  cannot  find ; 

'Tis  here  that  Fancy  fairest  found, 

Twines  softest  wreaths  of  Faery  round, 

And  lifts  the  mind  to  higher  realms, 

Where  Eden  views  the  thought  o'erwhelms. 

And  lends  a  joy,  a  love,  a  peace, 

Like  glowing  tales  of  storied  Greece, 

A  fairy  scene  where  Paphian  girls 

Are  angels  clad  in  amorous  curls, 

And  brightest  pictures  treat  the  eye 

To  loveliest  view  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  Eaphael  wed  to  Raphael  thought, 

A  thousand  beauties  softly  caught, 

Are  painted  in  the  brain  as  true 

As  arch  that  spans  the  bended  blue, 

And  if  no  power  to  trace  the  scene, 

'Tis  bright  as  Raphael's  art  could  glean. 


Tho'  Fancy's  scene  has  caught  the  train 

That  circles  here  in  flowery  reign, 

Historic  thought  has  left  its  trace, 

Historic  thought  has  found  its  place, 

And  pictured  forth  in  vying  hues 

The  flowers  that  droop  'neath  even's  dews, 

Enchant  the  vale  where  fancy's  knights 

Are  battling  brave  with  history's  wights, 

That  scarce  the  one  shall  be  of  fame 

Without  a  tinge  of  other's  name, 

Enough  of  truth  to  fly  the  verse, 

And  Fiction's  tongue  the  lay  rehearse, 

In  flowery  phrase  to  tempt  the  maid 

Who  loved  the  verse  where  sweetness  swayed, 

Or  lover  youth  who  kens  a  tale 


THE  LAD  T  OF  DARUALE.  21 

"Where  Cupid-god  steals  off  in  mail, 
And  throws  his  darts  like  warrior  bold, 
Then  love  in  love  the  maidens  fold ! 


No  warrior's  glance  need  scan  the  page 
Where  Fiction's  fancy  all  in  rage, 
Brings  forth  the  knight  in  arms  grown  old, 
Yet  full  of  strength,  and  brave,  and  bold, 
Where  history's  lines  are  dimly  seen, 
But  yet  enough  to  stay  the  een 
That  love  a  tale  for  now  and  then, 
That  paint  the  brighter  side  of  men, 
In  dainty  thought,  and  softest  way, 
A  sort  of  sweet  Arcadian  lay, 
That  claim  no  greatness  but  the  art 
That  wins  the  love  of  transient  heart, 
In  sweetest  way  from  care  and  woe, 
No  strain  of  thought  to  ken  the  flow 
Of  busy  scenes  that  come  and  go, 
A-like  the  star-gems  in  the  blue, 
That  win  the  gaze,  the  passing  view, 
A  moment  flit  a  seraph  light, 
A  star  of  joy  from  out  the  night, 
And  passing  go,  but  seen  no  more, 
Are  never  won  from  Lethe's  shore ; 
And  such  the  tale  my  hand  shall  trace, 
And  those  that  read  with  wrinkled  face, 
Shall  vainly  seek  for  power  of  thought 
Along  the  lines  where  fancy  taught 
A  sweeter,  simpler  lay  than  all 
That  mark  my  page  to  rise  or  fall 
For  ladies  fair  and  amorous  maid, 
The  knights  of  love  are  sweetly  'rayed, 
The  deeds  of  love,  the  war  of  gods, 
Who  sway  the  heart  with  golden  rods, 
And  stand  the  victors  of  the  earth, 
Where  Splendor  reigns  or  humble  birth, 
Are  dropt  from  heart  that  knows  the  sigh, 
The  lover's  look,  the  amorous  eye, 
Can  paint  from  fact,  an  Ayrshire  love, 
For  sweetest  maids  that  reign  above, 
Who  raise  the  soul,  or  sink  the  heart, 
And  by  their  mad  enchantress  art, 
And  wing  a  Cupid's  honeyed  dart. 
O  maidens  fair,  and  lasses  sweet ! 
The  world  is  bowed  and  at  your  feet ! 
The  earth  were  blank  with  you  a  thought 


22  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Of  something  gone,  a  thing  forgot, 
A  beauty  flitting  Memory's  reign, 

That  steals  the  warrior's  sigh, 

And  starts  the  tear  in  eye 
Of  empty  lord  and  man  of  brain. 

XI. 

Arcadian  loveliness  had  won 

This  Lydian  scene  from  grandeur  round, 
But  ah,  but  ah,  the  setting  sun, 

Where  spiral-like  the  brooklet  wound, 

Soft  bathed  a  form  that  bowed  the  ground 

In  mystic  ail  of  heart, 
As  Grief  she  were,  and  in  a  swound 

No  Eros  balm  could  start. 
Her  form  was  'rayed  in  garments  fair  to  see, 

As  from  a  wedding  she  had  lately  fled, 
But  ah !  no  joy  in  her  heart  could  there  be, 

Else  o'er  her  face  in  beauty  were  it  shed ; 
Rather  than  bride  she  seemed  the  maid  of  woe, 

And  tho'  she  may  have  reigned  as  Beauty's  queen, 
The  bitter  tears  from  her  sweet  eyes  did  flow, 

And  vanished  joy  no  traces  were  there  seen. 

XII. 

The  scene  around  in  beauty  vied, 
And  pictured  there  the  smileless  bride, 
The  sparkling  brook  in  aimless  sound, 
Whirled  on  its  way,  and  round  and  round, 
And  many  a  bird  attuned  of  glee, 
Went  winging  by  in  ecstasy ; 
The  branching  trees  in  amorous  guise, 
E'en  softly  swayed  with  zephyrs'  sighs, 
And  all  seemed  love  in  brook  and  dell, 
And  rose  and  sank  in  softest  swell ; 
Sweet  Nature's  tune  in  artless  wise, 
Where  song  of  bird,  the  bird-note  dies, 
In  melting  sweetness  'neath  the  skies. 
The  sun  in  mellow  struggling  rays, 
Had  darted  thro'  and  shed  his  blaze 

On  all  the  varied  scene, 
But  yet  she  lifted  not  her  gaze 

To  ken  the  golden  sheen. 
Her  woe  was  more  than  all  the  world, 
^  For  Eros  there  had  bravely  hurled 

A  shaft  that  winged  its  way  with  love, 
That  melted  sweetly  from  above ; 
And  she  that  feels  a  Cupid's  art, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

With  quivering  lance  within  her  heart, 
Has  none  of  time  or  hour  to  spare, 
To  list  the  bird  and  nature's  fair ; 
And  thus  the  scene  so  lovely  true 
(Where  zephyrs  sighed  and  breezes  blew), 
As  poet's  heart  could  wish,  could  crave, 
Was  more  to  her  a  yawning  grave 
Of  early  love,  the  bride  of  death, 
Where  charnel  lights  and  charnel  breath, 
Commingled  grim  like  linked  fates, 
And  stung  the  soul  of  softest  mates. 
Not  e'en  sweet  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots, 
Elizabeth,  the  hallowed  spots, 
Loch  Leven  in  the  misty  view, 
The  thousand  things  that  might  renew 
Their  hallowed  claim  if  wedless  maid 
Had  known  her  fate, — were  soft  arrayed, 
For  nay,  a  grander  fancy  played, 
A  fancy  that  with  powers  supreme, 
Worked  potent  as  a  midnight  dream, 
Nor  past  nor  present  theme  of  mind, 
But  love  had  sought,  did  vainly  find, 
And  helpless  bound  in  direful  woe, 
'Twere^  naught  of  wonder  tears  did  flow, 
'Twere  naught  of  wonder  beauty  round 
Was  twined  in  fragrance  o'er  the  ground, 
And  all  in  vain,  and  all  in  vain, 
'Twas  love  alone  that  swayed  her  brain, 
'Twas  love  that  painted  dark  or  bright, 
'Twas  love  that  lent  sepulchral  light, 
And  love  alone  to  name  her  dread, 
And  love  alone  that  came  and  sped, 
And  love  that  heaved  the  flowered  breast 
And  love  alone  her  woe  confest. 

XIII. 

The  Scottish  bards  e'en  yet  prolong 
Their  softened  note  and  melting  song, 
Yet  live  in  fame  and  sweetness  won 
From  beauties  glowing  'neath  the  sun, 
And  I  a  stranger  in  their  land, 
Attune  my  harp  at  their  command, 
My  soul  was  lost  amid  their  brave, 
I  knelt  in  prayer  above  their  grave, 
And  won  to  sweetness  of  their  song, 
My  harp  awoke  tho'  them  I  wrong, 
And  knightly  shades  went  flitting  by, 
That  claimed  my  thought  enwon  my  sigh, 


24  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

Till  native  clime  and  native  muse, 
Were  lost  in  fancy's  loveliest  hues, 
And  stranger  touch  in  stranger  lands, 
Was  sweeping  harps  where  softer  hands 
Had  won  from  verse  immortal  fames, 
And  left  to  Scotland  deathless  names ! 

XIV. 
COEOXACH.—  BURNS. 

O  Scotland's  great  and  deathless  bard ! 

My  modest  muse  would  have  thee  starred, 

Thou  Chief  of  Poesy's  native  art, 

That  reigned  and  reign  o'er  every  heart, 

A  touch  of  pity  knows  to  feel, , 

While  weeping  eye  the  tear  shall  steal 

From  inmost  love  that  'rays  a  soul, 

And  feels  a  calm  when  death-bells  toll, 

That  comes  to  hearts  that  ken  this  state 

The  poorer  half  that  finds  its  mate, 

When  life  and  death  are  hand  in  hand, 

And  seraphs  join  the  broken  band ! 

O  lovely  bard  by  nature  crowned! 

With  angel  forms  soft  flitting  round ! 

Be  mine  the  hand  from  foreign  clime, 

To  steal  the  sweetness  of  thy  rhyme, 

The  higher  thoughts  that  clothe  thy  verse, 

And  of  thy  land  a  tale  rehearse  ! 

The  harsher  ones  might  name  thee  bad, 

But  ah !  to  me,  thy  life  was  sad, 

And  full  of  beauties  many  a  heart 

Would  gladly  claim  as  all  their  art, 

And  risk  a  fate  that  stalks  the  gloom 

Which  deepens  round  the  charnel  tomb ; 

Thy  powers  were  such  no  hand  might  tame, 

And  whirled  thy  passions  like  a  flame, 

That  lesser  souls  can  reck  no  thought, 

For  tamer  fires  but  tamely  caught, 

Are  easier  held  in  virtue's  way ; 

Yet  on  the  gods  they  turn  to  slay, 

And  weakly  raise  a  mockery  cross, 

And  o'er  their  lives  shout:  "Loss,  oh,  loss!" 

While  they  themselves  with  souls  on  fire, 

With  magic  art  to  verse  the  lyre, 

E'en  might  have  sunk  to  lower  deeps, 

For  powers  like  his  a  whirlwind  sweeps, 

And  be  he  strong  in  every  trait, 

A  mightier  force  shall  name  his  fate. 

The  keenest  sense  of  Poesy's  art, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  ED  ALE.  25 

The  keenest  love  in  poet's  heart ; 
A  maid  shall  stand  a  goddess  fair, 
A  fit  creation  of  the  air, 
Where  perfect  things  and  perfect  love, 
Reign  all  supreme  in  realms  above, 
And  draw  the  soul  that  walks  the  earth, 
To  climes  where  Edens  find  their  birth. 
According  to  the  strength  imposed, 

The  Judge  shall  name  thy  name  when  death 
Thine  earthly  eyes  has  sadly  closed, 

And  things  of  now  seem  but  a  breath  ! 

xv. 

A  poet  o'er  a  poet's  tomb 

Would  shed  a  loveliness  in  bloom, 

And  picture  finer  traits  of  heart 

Than  from  the  fireless  souls  might  start, 

Reclaim  a  light  that  seraph  shone, 

And  move  to  life  the  drooping  stone 

"That  names  the  underlying  dead," 

To  passer-by  but  vainly  led, 

An  empty  shaft  of  loved  design, 

That  wrins  no  tear,  no  memory's  sign, 

That  takes  no  life,  and  speechless  there 

Looks  more  than  words,  and  faultless  fair, 

Half  pleads  in  vain  for  mouldering  form 

That  calmly  sleeps  thro'  night  and  morn, 

No  cheek  to  flush  at  flattery's  praise, 

No  heart  to  beat  with  country's  frays, 

No  soul  to  wed  to  soul  of  verse, 

No  ear  to  hear  the  rumbling  hearse 

That  slowly  moves  with  what  remains 

Of  what  was  good  or  bad  by  reigns, 

Of  what  was  missed  when  death  came  there, 

Or  half  forgot  ere  new-made  grave 
Had  shed  its  flower  in  Autumn's  air, 

Where  leafless  trees  above  him  wave ; 
But  kinship  art  of  poet  there 

Upstarts  a  thousand  thoughts, 
And  wins  the  form  so  loved  and  fair, 

To  scenes,  the  hallowed  spots, 
That  knew  his  tread,  while  once  again 

We  steer  the  skiff  and  skim  the  wave, 
Go  dancing  o'er  the  mirrory  main, 

Or  bow  in  sadness  by  the  grave 
That  severed  friendship's  golden  tie ; 

Anon  we  stray  the  flowery  hills, 
And  ken  of  love  and  life  to  die ; 

Anon  we  trace  the  dancing  rills, 


THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

And  Nature  there  says :  "Why,  O  why ! 

This  universal  death  ? 
For  man  was  never  made  to  die, 

Tho'  death  shall  sting  his  breath !" 


We  find  our  form  above  his  tomb 

As  talking  to  a  mate, 
But  Memory's  hand  has  won  the  bloom, 

And  flowery  wreathes  the  date 
That  marks  the  long,  long  years  ago, 

When  earthly  ties  were  broken, 
And  tears  from  mournful  eyes  did  flow 

In  sad  tho'  vainest  token. 
O  Memory  thou  that  borrows  peace, 
And  gives  to  woe  a  sweet  release, 
Lends  flame  and  fame  to  nameless  bard, 
And  paints  a  sky  that's  golden  starred, 
Thou  hast  the  tear,  the  love,  the  woe, 
The  shades  of  life  that  come  and  go, 
The  perfect  joys,  the  perfect  bliss, 
The  happy  homes,  the  lover's  kiss, 
The  good,  the  bad,  the  sweet,  the  fair, 
The  love  of  loves,  and  love's  despair ; 
Chameleon  scenes  en  mark  thy  reign, 
A  varied  view  that  claims  the  brain, 
And  wins  the  heart  or  mans  the  soul, 
Makes  sad  or  sweet  the  death-bell's  toll, 
Throws  charms  around  a  hated  form, 
Makes  grandeur  sweep  athwart  the  storm, 
Gives  peace  and  love,  and  friendship  fled, 
Reanimates  with  life  the  dead, 
A  panoramic  view  of  art, 
That  steals  the  soul,  the  musing  heart, 
And  paints  the  past  a  glowing  clime, 
And  lends  enchantment  to  the  rhyme 
That  age  alone  could  win  to  mind. 

Antiquity !  antiquity ! 

That  memory  gives  so  sweet  to  me, 
Where  else  thy  rival  shall  we  find? 
'Tis  memory  gives  me  scenes  of  Burns, 
The  mavis-birds  and  soaring  herns, 
The  sweetest  loves,  the  choicest  maids, 
The  richest  songs  in  tangled  braids, 
The  rural  scene  in  matchless  verse, 
The  numbers  soft,  and  sweet,  and  terse, 
The  native  harp  he  tuned  so  well, 
That  sweetly  rose  and  softly  fell, 


TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

For  every  clime,  and  every  land, 
The  high,  the  low,  the  modest  band ; 
Variety's  maid  stood  queen  of  verse, 
To  every  taste  did  true  rehearse, 
And  of  the  bards  that  won  the  flame, 
Prometheus  stole  from  heaven's  fane, 
He  stands  alone  for  every  taste, 
The  graded  scale  from  trite  to  chaste! 

XVII. 

THE  POET'S  HAKP. 

1. 
The  poet's  harp  should  span  the  world, 

And  ring  each  native  gladness, 
Should  rise  and  fall  in  varied  note, 

A  tear  for  every  sadness ; 
Should  smile  with  smile,  and  weep  with  death, 

And  join  in  every  glory, 
A  word  for  high,  a  word  for  low, 

And  freedom's  deathless  story. 


The  poet's  home  is  everywhere, 

No  selfish  note  e'er  knowing, 
A  boon  of  earth  for  plain  and  fair, 

His  strains  in  harmony  flowing ; 
A  health  to  all,  a  curse  for  none, 

A  welcome  bard  and  lover, 
A  guiding  star,  a  lighting  sun, 

Where  wisdom's  rays  may  hover. 

3. 
The  nations  meet  and  battles  rage, 

The  war-note  hoarser  braying, 
And  blood  is  traced  on  history's  page, 

The  death-marked  columns  'raying; 
The  poet's  heart  should  melt  for  all, 

And  join  them  in  their  grieving, 
But  justice  claim  the  tears  that  fall, 

The  laurel  bays  enwreathing. 

4. 
The  flowers  of  rhyme  enbloom  the  earth, 

And  shed  a  ray  of  heaven, 
'Twas  here  the  muses  found  their  birth, 

Prometheus  fire  was  given ; 
And  so  the  poet's  harp  is  strung 

With  more  than  earthly  sweetness, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  mystic  notes  have  often  rung 
In  soft  and  lowly  meekness. 

5. 
The  poet  sings  the  nations'  songs, 

The  golden  feast  and  wedding, 
He  sings  of  battles  and  their  wrongs, 

The  woes  their  names  are  shedding ; 
He  mounts  the  fleckless  steed  of  right, 

With  Right  his  crowning  glory, 
And  leads  it  bravely  thro'  the  fight, 

And  sings  the  fadeless  story. 

6. 
The  poet's  art  the  truest  art 

To  name  the  names  of  history, 
He  speaks  from  truth,  a  flowing  heart, 

And  sees  thro'  wrong  and  mystery ; 
His  fame  would  fade  like  bards  of  pay 

Who  write  in  Mammon's  calling, 
Should  truth  from  verse  be  gone  astray, 

His  name  and  art  despoiling. 


The  hate  of  hate,  the  love  of  love, 

His  fiery  heart  is  owning, 
He  steals  his  name  from  rays  above, 

And  joins  his  voice  in  moaning ; 
He  strike!  his  lyre  for  honest  fame, 

He  bays  the  hero  gory, 
He  'rays  in  stars  each  fadeless  name, 

And  harps  their  deeds  and  glory. 

8. 
He  sings  of  life,  he  sings  of  death, 

And  maids  of  matchless  beauty, 
The  flowers  of  thought  are  in  his  breath, 

And  war,  and  fame,  and  duty ; 
He  tunes  his  harp  to  every  woe, 

And  treads  a  privileged  lover, 
His  tears  with  tears  will  ever  flow, 

A  mother,  father,  brother ! 

9. 
The  Muse  his  love,  the  Harp  his  own, 

His  home  the  home  of  nations, 
A  welcome  guest,  the  world  his  home, 

And  bard  of  all  ovations ; 


THE  LADY  OF DARDALE.  29 

His  tones  are  sweet  and  not  of  death, 

Tho'  native  tongue  should  perish, 
The  nations  of  the  earth  their  breath 

Would  hold  his  name  to  cherish. 

10. 
He  sheds  a  sunshine  on  the  poor. 

And  strews  their  path  with  flowers, 
He  comes  a  hope  to  every  door, 

And  rainbow-tints  the  showers ; 
The  laughing  hearts,  the  mourning  hearts, 

He  decks  with  many  a  rosy, 
The  tear  of  pity  ever  starts, 

And  brightest  gems  of  poesy ! 

XVIII. 

Sweet  Fancy's  maid  has  won  the  train 
Of  laughing  fays  that  stole  to  brain, 
And  touched  of  him*  in  memory's  view ; 
But  mournful  there  'neath  dappled  blue, 

In  Fancy's  Scottish  scene, 
She  reckt  no  haunts  that  stole  to  view 

All  'rayed  in  golden  sheen. 
Had  rung  the  notes  that  since  have  swelled 
From  Northern  Harp  that  grandly  knelledf 
The  knightly  deeds  of  warriors  tombed, 
But  won  to  life  where  flowers  bloomed, 
She  might  have  dried  the  tearwet  eye, 
And  'rayed  in  stars  the  fadeless  sky ; 
But  bard  unborn, \  no  tune  to  sway, 
The  Eros  pain  to  soothe,  allay ; 
And  little  recked  she  times  to  fall 
Should  back  to  life  her  form  recall, 
And  name  her  love,  her  look,  her  woe, 
Should  paint  the  shades  that  come  and  go, 
And  lay  her  secrets  bare  as  day, 
Should  mark  her  lover  in  the  fray, 
The  battle  sound  along  the  vale, 
The  morning  dawn  that  rose  so  pale 
Above  the  dead  that  minions  laid 
In  death,  the  scenes  that  long  did  fade, 
Ere  e'en  her  life  the  numbered  dead, 
Ere  e'en  her  life  in  marriage  wed, 
Ere  e'en  the  lover  named  his  love, 
The  whispered  tale  in  vine-wreathed  grove, 
The  maiden  hues,  and  light,  and  shade, 
That  many  a  life  shall  know,  but  fade ; 
*Burua.    fScott.    JScott. 


30  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALK 

And  memory's  hand  in  aimless  round, 
In  vain  the  scene  is  sought,  not  found ; 
And  tho'  my  Bard  had  sung  his  Lay  * 
As  spanless  back,  'twere  not  of  sway, 
For  love  and  woe  were  all  her  thought, 
E'en  sighing  brook  was  half  forgot, 
The  stone  of  moss  that  held  her  form, 
The  closing  night  that  slow  came  on, 
The  vying  hues  of  light  and  shade, 
All,  all  forgot,  for  lowly  maid 
Was  struggling  with  her  bitter  woe, 

In  seeming  artless  guise, 
A  tear  adown  her  cheek  did  flow 

That  melted  from  her  eyes. 

XIX. 

What  were  the  ail  that  placed  her  here, 

In  wedding  dress  so  sad  and  drear  ? 

Did  warriors  storm  the  castle  wall 

Ere  "Thou  art  one,"  could  solemn  fall? 

What  could  it  mean  ?    Why  thus  distressed 

With  sorrows  in  her  face  confessed, 

All  unattended  by  her  maid, 

Alone,  alone  in  trysting  shade  ? 

Was  stolen  love  to  meet  her  here, 

And  kiss  the  sweet  or  saddened  tear? 

Had  bridegroom  died  ere  holy  tie 

Could  make  her  fleckless  bride, 
And  she  alone  had  come  to  die 

Where  mournful  brooklet  sighed  ? 
Enchantress  Eve !  the  maid  construe 
Ere  night  shall  win  thee  darker  hue ! 
Why  thus  alone  in  darkling  shade  ? 
And  naught  to  say !    O  mystic  maid ! 
Thy  tale  unfold  in  softest  phrase 
Ere  falling  eve  shall  dusk  the  rays, 
And  lend  us  all  her  secret  care ! 
Oh,  why  alone  and  in  despair  ? 


She  looketh  not  upon  the  sky, 
The  laughing  brook  soft  running  nigh, 
The  arching  trees  that  sway  above, 
The  Druid  shades  fantastic  wove, 
But  steady  on  the  leafy  ground 
As  mirror  there  were  lovelier  found, 
The  scene  that  won  her  melting  eye, 
*Scott. 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DABDALE.  31 

And  worked  her  bosom  to  a  sigh. 
Her  gaze  was  fastened  while  the  night 
Like  grimest  shade  of  mystic  knight 
Was  slowly  stealing  o'er  the  wood 
That  somber  grown  bro't  thoughts  of  blood, 
And  foulest  shades  that  stalk  the  earth 
To  dwarf  the  flower  that  finds  its  birth 
In  sweetest  scene  and  loveliest  dell, 
That  sways  upon  the  zephyrs'  swell, 
To  dark  the  view  and  crush  the  mind, 
That  more  than  loveliness  shall  find , 
While  Flora's  reign  is  'neath  the  sky 

Of  Sol-god's  golden  glory, 
And  vying  hues  in  beauty  play 

As  Eden  all  their  story, 
But  which  when  night  has  won  her  reign, 
A  thousand  shapes  stalk  thro'  the  brain, 
And  woe  on  woe  in  grim  complain 
Chase  thro'  the  shades  in  Torso  train, 
Imagination's  nightly  horde  » 

When  Culture's  eye  its  rays  has  poured, 
Vanish  a-like  a  witchcraft  reign 
That  swept  o'er  Ignorance  once  in  reign. 


So  wrapt  in  thought  and  single  woe 

She  heard  nor  sound  nor  step  that  fell, 
And  mingled  with  the  brooklet's  flow 

That  hurried  thro'  the  fern  and  dell ; 
But  footsteps  there  as  soft  as  love 

Commingled  with  the  trees, 
Which  threw  their  arching  arms  above 

And  fanned  a  mellow  breeze. 
That  stole  among  her  ringlets  fair, 

As  all  her  woe  and  ail 
Had  won  it  there  to  silent  prayer 

For  maiden  sweet  and  pale ; 
But  breeze  nor  prayer  in  saintly  guise, 

Had  naught  of  power  nor  balm 
To  soothe  her  heart  of  melting  sighs, 

And  win  the  golden  calm 
That  comes  of  prayer  from  earnest  heart, 

And  clothes  with  seraph  charm. 

XXII. 

Thro'  darkling  eve  and  foliaged  way, 
Sir  Henri  Vale  unconscious  gay, 


22  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

Trod  slowly  o'er  the  bosky  route, 
As  knowing  not  there  were  about 
A  wedless  maid  in  fleckless  garb, 
Where  Eros  once  had  flung  his  barb ; 
And  thus  for  love,  or  fray,  or  spile, 
He  aimless  strode  the  woody  night, 
Uncaring  whether  dtiy  or  eve 
Held  maiden  fair  that  did  bereave. 
No  armor  cased  his  supple  form, 
But  by  his  side  a  sword  undrawn 
Was  hanging  heavy  as  a  feud 
Had  once  begun,  and  now  renewed 
Sought  satisfaction  here  alone, 
With  single  foe,  whose  cry  or  moan, 
Should  fill  no  ear  with  mortal  dread 
As  savage  wound  should  lay  him  dead; 
But  soon  his  heart  of  lighter  mood, 
Broke  into  song,  and  rang  the  wood, 
In  artless  strain  that  comes  of  quest 
Where  empty  aim  is  true  confessed, 
By  action,  tone,  and  manner,  all, 
By  steps  that  pause  and  lightly  fall. 
The  brook  that  sang  upon  his  ear 

Had  won  the  carol  to  his  heart, 
And  love  that  had  nor  woe  nor  tear. 

At  first  was  all  his  simple  art, 
But  soon  the  accents  of  despair 

Partook  the  burden  of  his  song, 
And  maiden  weeping,  wailing  there, 

Seemed  theme  alone  that  did  belong 
To  ditty  of  the  strolling  knight, 
Who  sang  his  lay  in  even's  light, 
That  faded,  faded  from  the  scene, 
And  left  a  mellow  golden  sheen 

Upon  the  wood  around, 
And  shaped  the  trees  of  waving  green 

To  gnomes  that  did  confound. 

THE  BBOOK. 

"I  traced  the  brook  that  wound  its  way 
Thro'  light  and  shade,  and  hawthorn  gay, 
My  thought  as  light  as  petaled  flower 
That  blooms  the  nighty  youthhood  hour, 
My  head  as  empty  as  the  love 

That  sweets  our  early  days, 
And  feels  that  earth  is  heaven  above^ 

With  fresh  and  flowery  Mays. 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  ED  ALE.  38 

"My  shiny  boot  was  muddied  soon, 
Looked  farmer-like  aneath  the  moon, 
The  studded  stars  that  lit  the  sky, 
Seemed  Cupid-gods,  and  winking  sly, 
As  maiden's  form  were  floating  there 

With  seraph  song  and  voice, 
That  wailed  of  love  and  love's  despair, 

As  love  were  all  her  choice. 

"The  brook  in  sweetest  notes  did  sigh, 
The  moon  a  great  and  mellow  eye, 
As  calmly  looked  as  saintly  death, 
That  seemed  a  sleep  without  the  breath, 
And  Nature's  sweetness,  foliaged  king, 

Was  fresh  with  dews  of  eve, 
And  many  a  bird  on  lovelorn  wing 

In  lover-notes  did  grieve. 

"My  heart  was  light  as  flowery  bell 
That  nods  upon  the  breezes'  swell, 
An  empty  head,  an  empty  thought, 
No  maid  in  lover-arts  had  taught; 
So  all  was  there  a  merry  dream 

That  youngling  love  shall  know, 
But  floats  upon  a  Lethe  stream, 

To  death  or  direful  woe. 

"The  wailing  wind  a  wailing  held, 
As  parting  love  it  sank  and  swelled; 
My  pace  so  airy,  light  and  free, 
Partook  of  all  the  seeming  misery. 
A  maiden's  voice  as  soft  and  low 

As  mother's  o'er  her  child, 
A  maiden's  voice  as  full  of  woe 

As  death  in  accents  wild. 

"Why  weeps  my  tearful  maid 
'Neath  poplar's  wavy  shade, 

As  if  her  heart  would  break  ? 
Has  flown  her  bird  away, 
And  sung  his  native  lay, 

A  last  farewell  to  take? 
Or  has  her  earliest  friend 
Found  death  to  be  the  end, 

While  she  is  left  to  moan? 
Or  has  her  early  life 
Been  blighted  as  a  wife, 

And  she  is  left  alone? 


84  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"She  tears  her  golden  hair 
As  if  in  wild  despair, 

And  faster  falls  the  tear; 
What  tearful  woe  is  this 
That  darks  this  scene  of  bliss, 

And  steals  upon  the  ear? 
Ah!  perched  upon  a  limb 
His  quiver  all  in  trim, 

A  rosy  Cupid  sat; 
So  now !  my  weeping  maid, 
'Neath  poplar's  mellow  shade, 

"Tis  love,  and  only  that!" 

XXIII. 

And  died  the  song  upon  the  air, 
The  knight  unconscious  yet  was  there 
A  maid  that  seemed  the  maid  of  song, 
That  chanted  love,  and  woe  and  wrong, 
And  drew  a  picture  of  a  heart 
That  won  its  ail  from  Cupid's  art, 
And  seemed  the  woe  of  all  the  woes, 
Where  many  a  tear  in  sorrow  flows,     . 
And  crushes  him  that  pity  feels, 
As  misery  on  his  bosom  steals. 

XXIV. 

No  laughing  Dee  aneath  the  moon, 

A  poet's  love,  a  bonny  Boon, 

A  Highland  maid,*  a  Lowland  love,t 

And  stars  his  |  eyes  that  shone  above, 

A  soul  of  song,  a  soul  of  verse, 

A  matchless  love  could  sing,  rehearse, 

But  yet  if  Clyde,  nor  Boon,  nor  Dee, 

Had  naught  of  kinship  with  the  beauty 

Enchantress  shades  had  bathed  in  gloom, 

The  lover  there  that  named  his  doom, 

Yet  love  as  sweet,  as  nameless  felt, 

In  eye  of  maid,  in  youth  did  melt; 

No  jagged  banks  of  Loch  Archray, 

Where  waters  flaunted,  broke  the  ray 

In  thousand  splendors,  claimed  their  glance, 

'Twere  blinding  love  that  did  entrance. 

Tho'  knights  with  brass-tipt  spear  should  fly 

On  barded  steed,  the  shield  on  high, 

And  knighthood  flaunt  its  thousand  arts, 

The  mail,  the  axe,  the  whirring  darts, 

*Highland  Mary.    fBurns's.    J  Burns. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  banners,  plumes,  the  javelin,  helm, 
Yet  love  alone  their  hearts  o'erwhelm. 
No  ponderous  pile  had  aught  of  charm, 
And  Melrose  there! — O  holy  calm! 
That  fills  the  soul  of  him  whose  eye 
Finds  Abbey's  walls  that  kiss  the  sky, 
A  memory's  picture  sculptured  fair, 
Divinely  won,  a  reverend  air, 
That  draws  the  mind  from  self,  and  paints 
A  thousand  scenes,  though  outline  faints 
In  distant  mellowed  past,  and  lost 
The  shreds  in  hundred  fancies  tost. 
Thou  searchless  Past  that  ruins  'ray 
In  thousand  beauties,  holiest  sway, 
The  soul  is  rapt  while  memory's  reign 
Paints  ruined  splendors  in  the  brain, 
And  steals  from  past  the  mighty  works 
Where  giant  genius  proudly  lurks, 
The  powers  that  shame  a  later  age, 
And  mountains  rise  on  storied  page; 
Unrivaled,  great,  a  deathless  fame, 
That  younger  time  has  not,  no  claim; 
Thy  spoils  are  more  to  brain  than  they 
Who  hug  a  crown, — are  great, — a  day, — 
And  naught  remains  but  shroud, — a  corse, 
An  empty  empire, — loss,  O  loss! 
Fair  Melrose,  ruined  splendor  thou ! 
Thy  own  bard  paints;*  the  forms  that  bow 
Are  buried,  tombed  in  living  past, 
Are  statues  carved,  the  eye  is  cast 
As  he  who  gazes  on  the  face 
Of  sculptured  dead,  and  there  does  trace 
A  birth,— a  growth, — a  master, — fame!— 
Love, — immortality, — a  name 
That  unborn  time  shall  know,  shall  claim; 
And  yet  my  maid!    Ah!  love  to  her 
E'en  more  than  memory's  reign  might  stir, 
A  fair  Abbaye  in  beauty  there, 
That  ruin  swept,  and  yet  did  spare, 
Where  Ruin! — Beauty!  wedded  reign! 
A  mighty  hush— a  gem— a  stain, 
A  life, — a  death  in  close  embrace, 
A  living,  and  a  dead  cold  face! 
O  Cromwells!  Crom wells!  woes  of  war, 
And  blood!  grim  death!  thou  hadst  no  law! 
The  devastated  palace !— f ane ! 
For  war  is  madness  in  the  brain, 
*Scott. 


THE  LADT  OF  DABDALE. 

Has  blasted  splendors  never  hand 

Might  gain!— restore!—  a  smiling  land 

Hast  laid  in  ruins ! — swept  the  arts 

The  ages  won,  yet  glory  starts 

In  bloody  route;  for  savage  war, 

And  e'en  decay,  the  tyrant's  law, 

In  ruined  beauties  traced  its  way, 

And  conquering  hordes  that  time  shall  slay, 

Left  there  on  desecrated  ground 

More  glories  than  their  chieftain  found ! 

O  Salidins!  Salidins!  and  a— shroud! 

O  Cromwells!  are  the  ages  bowed? 

Did  blasted  empires  in  decay 

Win  name,  and  fame,  a  deathless  sway? 

O  pitiless  warriors  thou!    The  page 

Shall  glow  with  blood,  and  time  shall  wage 

A  war  with  thee  and  thine,  and  gloom 

Shall  be  about  thy  greatness !    Tomb ! 

Forgetfulness,  thy  chief,  thy  all! 

Thy  only  fame!— Such  fames  shall  fall! 

xxv. 

But  Love  the  victor,  chief  of  thought, 

Had  named  her  woe,  and  fancy  caught 

No  glowing  memories;  storied  past 

As  never  born.    Her  woe  the  last 

Her  mind  had  won.    The  tears  may  flow, 

And  shades  shall  come,  and  shades  shall,  go, 

Yet  thoughts  like  these  shall  find  no  claim 

Till  love  is  won  to  peaceful  reign. 

The  scene  unborn,  yet  though  of  past, 

No  power  to  stir  the  eye  downcast; 

Such  scenes,  such  thoughts,  her  fullest  wo 

But  faintly  limn;  the  tears  may  flow 

Till  love  be  off  with  gloomful  guise, 

Till  love  be  off  where  beauty  dies; 

No  sweet  champaign  that  bard  shall  paint, 

No  sweet  champaign  where  rose  shades  faint, 

No  mouldered  tomb  where  genius  dead 

E'en  death  and  life  has  sweetly  wed, 

No  art,  no  charm,  their  glory  gone, 

Their  beauty,  holy  sweetness!     Born 

Another  scene.    The  dappled  dawn 

But  glooming  darkness.    Pictures  wrought 

From  modern  view  to  prove  the  lot 

Of  lowly  maid,  the  shadows  caught 

From  thing  as  sweet  as  fleckless  love 

Where  never  fairer  light  above. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE.  87 


The  lord  of  Dardale's  castle  proud, 

Had  made  for  love  a  timeless  shroud, 

Had  placed  the  seal  of  woe  on  youth 

And  crushed  two  hearts  that  beat  in  truth; 

The  tear  had  flowed  at  his  command, 

And  misery  marked  his  fruitless  hand; 

The  fete  vras  made,  and  guests  were  there, 

The  courtier  knights,  and  ladies  fair, 

The  borderer  from  the  bordering  stream, 

The  lord  of  worth,  the  lord  of  sheen, 

The  high,  th.3  low,  the  mighty,  great, 

The  warrior  knight  that  knew  no  mate, 

The  peerless  belle,  the  amorous  maid, 

And  glory's  worth  that  ne'er  shall  fade; 

'Twas  e'en  a  grand,  a  glorious  ball, 

That  claimed  the  high,  the  low,  and  all, 

A  festival  that  long  was  known 

Both  far  and  near,  and  many  a  tone 

Had  oft  repeated  beauties  there, 

But  chief  of  all  the  matchless  pair, 

The  mystic  knight,  and  Dardale  maid, 

"Who  seemed  the  pair  that  Eden  made! 

The  roses  twined,  and  streamlets  played, 

No  woe  was  there  for  Joy  had  stayed, 

And  lent  a  charm  as  soft,  as  sweet, 

As  lips  of  love  that  part  and  meet, 

As  lips  that  tempt  the  callous  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  in  guileless  art, 

And  make  a  scene  that  seems  a  void 

O'erilow  with  sweets  where  Love  has  toyed 

With  many  a  heart,  and  won  the  woe 

That  comes  of  love,  where  eyes  shall  flow 

At  beck  of  love  for  love  returned, 

At  beck  of  glance  that  wooed  and  yearned. 

The  music  swelled  the  breathing  air, 

And  shimmering  lights  more  faintly  fair 

Than  love's  first  glance  in  modest  een 

O'erflooded  all  the  regal  scene, 

The  doughty  lord  of  haughty  mien, 

The  sighing  maid  with  Eden  eyes, 

That  dreamed  no  wrong  and  blushed  surprise 

At  closer  gaze  of  bolder  man, 

As  love  and  beauty  mingled  ban 

His  helpless  heart,  and  woo  his  gaze 

To  thing  of  beauty  sweet  as  fays. 

The  fretted  pillars  fruited  fair, 

The  downy  shades  that  floated  there, 


38  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

The  swaying  lights,  the  moving  mass, 
The  varying  hues  that  come  and  pass, 
The  thousand  things  that  mark  the  dance,. 
Where  music  swells,  and  does  entrance 
The  soul,  the  eye,  the  mind,  the  all, 
A  passing  dream,  a  mazy  thrall, 
Thatjtones  shall  cease,  a  fleeting  dream, 
Where  men  and  maids  in  laughing  sheen 
Had  floated  fays  on  floors  of  gold, 
Like  fairies  mingled  on  the  wold. 


The  day  had  dawned,  the  eve  had  come, 
The  stars  had  lit  the  arched  dome, 
The  crowd  was  there,  the  music  poured, 

And  merry  went  the  dance, 
And  Love  had  queened  and  been  adored 

For  charms  that  soft  entrance ! 
The  crowd  was  gone!  the  lights  were  out,. 

And  passed  the  tangled  dream, 
But  Cupid  there  with  merry  shout 

Had  flung  his  dart  between! 
Two  hearts  that  strangers  were  at  first 
In  other  Edens  now  had  burst, 
The  one  the  knight  that  came  alone, 
And  magic  powers  was  said  to  own, 
The  other,  Dardale's  matchless  maid, 
That  Beauty  seemed  in  beauty  'rayed, 
Unconscious  had  the  flame  begun, 
Unconscious  grew  till  both  were  one, 
Till  time  and  tide  were  all  the  same, 
Till  time  and  tide  were  but  a  name. 
O  love  like  this  that  decks  a  heart 

Of  fleckless  youth  and  maid, 
The  hand  were  harsh  that  e'er  could  part 

Where  Eros  came  and  stayed 
In  guileless  wise,  no  thought  but  love 

That  comes  in  Purity's  garb, 
.And  reigns  a  thing  that  skies  above 

Have  gemmed,  and  loved,  and  starred; 
But  yet  the  hand  that  'rayed  the  ball 

In  glory  of  the  setting  sun, 
In  father's  anger  harsh  did  fall 

And  crushed  a  love  so  pure  begun, 
But  crushed  as  murder  which  upstarts. 

Before  the  conscience  of  the  form, 
And  e'er  reminds  that  Anger's  arts 

Shall  never,  never  be  a-gone! 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  39 

XXVIII. 

The  hearts  were  crushed,  but  still  upsprung 

The  love  that  Cupid  fleckless  flung, 

And  Lord  Graville  and  Lacy,  knight, 

Had  gloomed  themselves  in  darkest  night. 

The  flower  that  bloomed  the  flower  of  all, 

As  sweetly  fair  that  climbs  the  wall, 

Had  ta'en  the  hue  of  Sorrow's  woe, 

And  Beauty's  tears  in  misery  flow; 

But  lover  forced,  the  doughty  lord, 

Who  reigned  in  name  the  castle's  god, 

Relented  not,  but  pressed  his  suit, 

Tho'  Dardale  maid  were  beauty  mute. 

The  sire  of  her  who  lent  her  tears 

To  nameless  knight,  and  nameless  fears, 

Was  bold  to  say:  "My  child!  art  mad? 

That  mystic  knight  should  make  thee  sad ! 

My  Lacy  lord  shall  name  thee  bride, 

And  there  sweet  blushing  by  his  side, 

The  priest  shall  cure  thy  nameless  ail, 

And  dry  thine  eye,  and  hush  thy  wail. 

'Tis  foolish  now  since  years  are  gone 

That  named  you  bride  of  him  you  scorn, 

To  feel  you  love  a  roving  knight, 

That  I  of  all  did  free  invite 

To  carnival  that  won  a  woe 

To  heart  of  mine,  your  eyes  to  flow. 

Hush!  hush!  thy  love's  deceptive  now! 

It  soon  shall  pale  at  altar's  brow ! 

The  knight  forgot,  and  marriage  bells 

Shall  sweetly  sound!    The  music  swells! 

Oh  Lacy!  happiest  wight  of  earth! 

My  daughter,  matchless  from  her  birth ! 

Has  graced  thy  love  as  hers  is  graced 

By  manly  love  so  purely  traced 

Within  your  look  so  bold  and  brave, 

That  has  no  fear  to  fill  the  grave 

Of  valor's  chief!"    The  voice  had  fled 

The  whole  a  scene  that  softly  shed 

A  fleeting  view  that  years  had  known, 

A  fleeting  view  e'en  yet  unflown 

From  knight  and  maid,  tho'  years  had  gone 

Since  love  to  them  so  sweetly  born, 

Had  'rayed  their  souls  as  one, 
And  shed  a  sunlight  like  the  dawn 

That  holy  hearts  have  won. 

XXIX. 

A  flitting  scene  that  swayed  his  mind 


40  THE  LADY  OF  DA RDALE. 

And  gave  him  memories  of  the  past, 
When  heart  for  heart  was  true  resigned, 

And  hopes  were  born  that  could  not  last. 
Such  heavy  woe  that  fancy's  train 
Enpictured  of  the  past  where  reign 
The  thousand  arts  that  verse  might  own, 
Had  naught  of  charm.    Her  love  had  known 
So  bitter  birth,  such  lasting  woe 
That  love  a  world  where  waters  flow 
In  bitter  stream,  no  flowers  blow, 
But  darkness  there,  the  gloom  cf  night, 
A  charnel  tomb,  sepulchral  light, 
Nor  any  star,  no  watching  mocn, 
No  reaching  world  where  roses  bloom, 
But  woes  that  sorrow-laden  hearts 
Shall  feel,  shall  know,  if  Eros  darts 
Are  dipt  in  perfect  love.    'Twas  Beauty, 

The  chief  of  Nature's  cursful  arts 
And  love  a  bartered  boon,  a  duty, 

A  thing  that  sells,  is  bought  in  marts. 
No  eye  for  scenes  a  bard  might  paint, 
No  thought  her  time  should  far  and  faint, 
Be  torn  from  past,  her  history  bare, 
Be  held  to  gaze,  a  vulgar  stare, 
Where  Pity  but  the  shade  of  self, 
Might  coldly  look.    The  maid  an  elf, 
A  fay,  a  thing  divine,  and  yet  the  time 
So  far  in  gloom,  that  modern  rhyme 
No  skill  to  picture  living  life, 
Where  pulse  has  ceased,  the  love,  the  strife, 
And  maid  and  youth  in  mouldered  grave 
Have  turned  to  native  dust;  a  wave 
Has  swept  them,  yet  their  lives  have  claimed 
A  living  hue,  and  bards  are  chained 
In  glowing  past,  the  beauty's  hue, 
That  time  shall  give  to  distant  view, 
And  if  his  verse  a  lifeless  tale, 
A  less  than  poet!    Years  assail 
In  vain  sweet  Nature's  laureled  bard, 
And  tho'  in  death  the  skies  are  starred, 
And  sweeter  far  that  he  has  reigned 
The  child  of  verse  where  naught  was  feigned. 

xxx. 

The  years  were  few  that  named  the  hour 
When  harsher  hands  had  struck  the  flower 

That  bloomed  in  Dardale's  castle  wall, 
And  golden  skies  did  darkly  lower 

Above  her  head,  a  funeral  pall; 


THE  LADY  OF DARDALE.  41 

But  yet  this  form  that  named  his  thought, 

And  turned  him  to  the  past, 
Had  surely,  surely,  surely  caught 

The  features  and  the  cast 
Of  her  who  queen  of  ball  and  hour, 

Had  won  his  youthful  heart, 
And  left  a  lasting,  lasting  power, 

That  time  nor  tide  no  art 
To  drive  from  memory's  reign, 

For  scenes  would  softly  start 
And  flit  athwart  his  brain. 


A  lightning's  flash  the  scene  was  born, 
A  lightning's  flash  the  scene  had  gone, 
But  lowly  maid  that  bowed  the  rock, 
Had  naught  of  past,  no  memory's  shock, 
E'en  silent  yet,  as  when  their  eyes 
Had  met  and  seen  as  bird  that  flies. 
E'en  silent  yet,  as  if  the  now 

Were  all  in  all  to  her, 
And  grief  alone  that  made  her  bow, 

Nor  any  past  to  stir. 

The  twilight  hues  were  thickening  round, 
Perchance  her  ear  had  heard  no  sound, 
Her  eye  no  sight  to  hold  his  form, 
Since  night  was  there  and  day  was  gone; 
But  yet  he'd  linger  softly  there, 
For  something  made  her  sad  despair 
Akin  to  feelings  of  his  own! 
He'd  on  his  way,  nor  sob,  nor  moan, 
The  power  to  hold  him  longer  bound, 
But  yet  the  maid  in  darkness  round, 
In  attitude  did  sweet  implore 
His  presence  there,  his  prayer  and  more, 
And  half  in  doubt  and  half  in  fear, 
He  moved  a  pace  to  dry  the  tear 
That  flowed  in  bitter,  bitter  tide, 
And  so  in  contrast  with  a  bride! 
Above  the  scene  like  silvery  shield 

The  argent  moon  in  softness  rolled, 
And  there  a  form  that  might  not  yield 

Its  mellow  rays  did  sweet  enfold! 
The  laughing  brook,  the  duskier  trees, 
The  softened  shade,  the  twirling  breeze, 
The  stone  of  moss,  the  lingering  knight, 
All,  all  were  there  aneath  the  light; 
And  now  my  Luna,  maid  of  tides, 


42  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

While  paly  soft  thy  moonbeam  rides, 
What  may  the  end  of  meeting  be? 
And  who  the  maid  of  softened  beauty? 
And  who  this  knight?  and  why  art  met 

So  strangely  thus  in  e'en-lit  wood, 

Where  woe  in  darkness  seemed  to  brood, 
And  things  that  time  might  not  forget? 
A  something  there  that  seemed  of  love, 

Was  master  of  his  wayward  step, 
And  soft  as  mellow  rays  above, 

It  tranced  his  form,  and  helpless  kept 
His  passioned  eye  in  fixedness 
Upon  the  maid  that  shades  did  dress 
In  loveliest  colors  of  the  eve, 
That  heart  and  eye  could  scarce  believe 
Were  earthly  maid  that  did  confess 
A  human  ail,  a  human  woe, 

And  strangely  born  of  loveliest  bride, 
Where  naught  but  sunshine  soft  should  go, 

And  love  and  joy  in  mingled  tide. 
But  ah,  my  youth  and  love-eyed  maid! 

'Twere  many  a  tale  a  bride  could  tell 
Of  love  that  came,  but  lived  to  fade, 

And  marriage  turned  to  funeral  bell; 
For  Peris  won  to  wedding  garb, 

By  softened  tale  from  modest  youth 
Have  often  found  god  Cupid's  barb 

Was  not  the  barb  of  fleckless  truth! 
How  oft  the  maid  'neath  hawthorn  shade, 
Where  love  and  joy  at  once  were  stayed, 

Has  oped  her  ear  to  passioned  tale, 
Has  felt  a  love  from  heaven  strayed, 
And  there  in  beauty  meek  arrayed, 

Thrown  from  her  heart  soft  Virtue's  mail ! 
How  many  a  mard  of  loveliest  form, 

Has  won  a  pure  unsullied  heart, 
And  led  the  days  in  purity  born 

That  came  of  Cupid's  honeyed  dart! 
'Tis  chance,  or  luck,  or  what  you  like, 

The  good  and  bad  are  kings  in  reign, 
The  sun  may  shine  all  argent  bright, 

Its  disk  may  ray  without  a  stain; 
The  sun  may  shine  in  beds  of  gold, 

And  pale  in  clouds  of  inky  night, 
The  sun  may  rise  on  loveliest  fold, 

And  set  in  gloom  that  has  no  light; 
But  yet  a  line  in  poet's  phrase, 
To  maid  and  youth  of  softened  gaze, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE.  43 

There  is  a  hope  tho'  not  of  life, 

Where  care,  and  woe,  and  teemful  strife, 

Are  never  part  of  endless  days, 

But  love,  and  peace,  and  seraph  rays, 

And  things  of  beauty  with  the  dawn, 

Where  death  is  not,  and  peace  is  born. 

XXXII. 

Perchance  my  maid  on  mossy  stone 
Shall  find  this  knight  the  knight  alone, 
That  holds  for  her  a  Plato's  love, 
And  soft  as  incense  from  above 

Lend  sweetness  to  her  days, 
But  yet  the  knight  a  knight  may  rove 

A  knight  of  wayward  ways; 
He  feels  he  loves,  but  yet  a  doubt 

Is  often  kin  of  firstling  love, 
The  light  may  burn  but  soon  burn  out, 

When  two  are  one  and  lives  are  wove; 
And  yet  first  love  he  claims  no  part, 

In  truth  the  love  that  now  was  felt, 
For  years  had  gone  since  to  his  heart 

His  love  of  loves  in  love  did  melt. 
Such  scenes  as  fire  the  living  soul 
In  mellow  grandeur  softly  roll 
Before  the  gaze  of  memory's  eye, 
Had  naught  of  balm,  no  spangled  sky, 
Had  naught  of  thought  a  hue,  a  shred, 
Her  mind,  her  heart,  and  woe  that  wed 
Her  past,  her  present,  sorrow  gloomed 
The  deathless  years,  the  warriors  tombed, 
The  mighty  works,  the  minds  that  reigned, 
All,  all  were  there,  yet  night  remained, 
No  past,  but  present,  deep  in  gloom, 
The  blighting  death  that  robbed  the  bloom 
Of  beauty,  flowers,  lilies,  all, 
Yet  Love  that  painted,  there  did  fall 
A  death-cold  hand,  a  sweeping  pall, 
And  love  to  paint  so  dark  a  view? 
'Tis  love  that  tints  the  rainbow's  hue; 
And  love  so  pure  to  gloom  a  heart? 
'Tis  love  that  flies  the  honeyed  dart; 
And  love  to  win  the  hue1  of  eve? 
'Tis  love  that  fairest  scenes  shall  wreave; 
And  love  to  rob  the  stars  of  night? 
'Tis  love  that  lends  the  fairest  light; 
And  love  to  sink  a  life  in  woe? 
'Tis  love  that  makes  the  joy  tears  flow; 


44  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARUAL  E. 

And  love  to  picture  hades  ?— hell? 

'Tis  love  that  makes  the  sick  mind  well; 

And  love  to  canker  in  the  soul? 

'Twas  love  that  Eden's  beauty  stole; 

And  love  to  rob  sweet  memory's  view, 

That  steals  to  eye  in  mellow  hue? 

A  scene  that  poet's  art  has  'rayed 

In  thousand  splendors,  star-gems  played, 

And  scenes  of  earth,  and  blue  of  sky 

Are  blending  there,  in  beauty  vie, 

And  teach  the  heart  a  softer  way, 

Where  higher  things  shall  claim,  shall  sway, 

And  holy  calm  that  comes  of  peace, 

Be  crowning  laurel,  woe's  release; 

And  love  that  paints  the  richest  scene, 

'Tis  love  that  makes  the  maid  a  queen, 

'Tis  love  that  Scotia's  bards  shall  own, 

'Tis  love  and  memory  softly  flown 

From  native  land,  from  native  clime, 

That  own  the  verse,  the  Knight  of  rhyme,* 

His  deathless  Lay,t  the  \varrior  chief, 

The  lowly  maidj  in  sorrow's  grief; 

And  scene  on  scene  shall  steal  the  mind 

From  self,  the  laurel  matchless  twined 

Shall  picture  fresh,  e'er  yet  the  dew 

So  riveless  drawn  in  memory's  view, 

And  mind  and  soul  paint  there  in  reign, 

The  chiefs  that  were,  the  bards  that  claim 

A  deathless  fame  in  foreign  land, 

And  nations  join  in  rosy  band; 

And  proudly  Shaft§  thy  form  may  rear 

In  highest  sky,  the  kindred  tear 

May  wet  the  dust,  and  jostling  feet 

Polish  the  stones,  the  eyes  may  meet, 

The  thoughts  enknit  the  present,  past, 

Entwine  the  bay,  the  flowers  cast 

On  sacred  ground,  and  paint  the  tomb 

Where  never  yet  the  dank,  the  gloom, 

But  creeping  vines  and  flowers  in  bloom, 

And  things  of  loveliest  tint,  a  hue 

That  mellows  into  space,  the  blue 

En  won  of  distant  Eden  view, 

That  memory  claims,  while  sculptured  there 

The  living  form  that  pictures  fair 

The  kindred  dead,  a  bard  won  bard, 

Who  stands  his  kindred  crowned  and  starred, 

*Slr  Walter  Scott.  fThe  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  JMargaret  Of  Brasksome.   §The 
Scott  Monument,  Edinburgh. 


THE  LAD  Y  OFDARDALE.  45 

Who  stirs,  nor  moves  as  fancy  paints 
The  life,  the  fame.    The  even  faints, 
The  mellow  queen  as  calmly  pure, 
As  calm,  serene,  the  thoughts  allure 
To  ruined  pile  where  ashes  sleep 
Of  mighty  dead;*  the  night-dews  weep. 
Ah  I  Dryburgh  Abbey!  sweetly  fair, 
Thy  ruined  splendors  trace  the  air! 
The  Shaftt  may  rise  in  city's  pale! 
His  ashes  herel  the  sob,  the  wail! 
Departed  greatness!    Knighthood's  chief! 
The  Bard  of  Knights!— and  turned  the  leaf 
Ere  penhand  shorn  of  power,  the  brain 
Of  magic  numbers,  soul  of  strain! 
Ah!  Dryburgh!  more  the  glory  thine 
Than  sculptured  Shaft  of  proud  design, 
In  fruited  grandeur  o'er  the  spot, 
Memorial  stone  where  bard  is  not! 
For  more  the  mound  that  guards  the  dust 
Than  shaft  by  morning's  glory  flushed! 
And  yet  such  scenes  as  poets  draw, 
Could  not  have  swayed.    A  law 
Of  mightier  power  held  thoughts  of  maid, 
The  picture  drawn,  a  scene  to  fade, 
'Twas  love  might  paint  a  fairer  scene, 
And  'ray  a  bard  in  heavenly  mien, 
Whose  years  were  numbered  with  the  past, 
Whose  years  had  ripened,  sung  their  last; 
But  bards  unborn,  the  bards  of  death, 
Present  or  past,  no  life,  no  breath 
To  stir  her  heart,  'twas  love  in  woe, 
The  shadows  there  that  came,  did  go, 
E'en  strolling  knight  no  power  to  move 
The  maid  that  bowed  in  wedless  love, 
And  yet  the  thought  that  lowly  maid 

As  statue-like  as  stone, 
Was  once  the  form  that  softly  'rayed 
His  amorous  youth  where  star-gems  played, 

And  made  her  maid  alone 
Of  all  his  thought,  and  all  his  heart, 

And  love  that  speaks  before  it  thinks, 

Gave  voice  to  thought  that  link  on  links, 
Had  forged  a  chain  that  might  not  part; 
And  there  with  Luna,  soul  of  sky, 
The  queen  of  love  and  mellow  eye, 

The  softened  light  that  lent  her  form, 

*Scott.    tThe  Scott  Monument. 


46  THE  LADY  OF  LARD  ALE. 

And  stars  that  seem  the  maids  that  die, 
He  voiced  his  thought  where  brook  sighed  on. 

XXXIII. 

"Fair  Lady,  mine  no  heart  to  rue 

A  soft  rebuke  from  such  as  you, 

But  straying  steps  that  brought  me  here 

Have  learned  to  pause  without  a  fear 

That  one  so  lone,  so  woeful  fair, 

Could  wish  me  far,  so  bold  to  dare. 

I  would  not  linger  as  a  bard 

Who  sees  his  Peri  golden  starred, 

But  that  a  heart  I  have  not  owned 

Since  words  were  said,  and  harshly  toned, 

Has  bound  my  form  and  ta'en  the  power 

That  would  have  led  me  from  this  bower!"/ 

And  all  the  sound  that  broke  the  air 

Was  Echo's  voice,  as  dying  there, 

It  left  the  knight  and  moveless  maid 

In  silence  more  and  more  arrayed, 

With  crushing  force,  as  fogbell  knell 

When  seas  roll  high,  as  mountains  swell, 

And  nameless  dread  has  won  a  reign 

O'er  heart  and  soul  and  working  brain. 

"To  Dardale  Castle,  half  a  mile, 

Where  Beauty's  maid  and  Beauty's  smile, 

Are  reigning  yet  in  softened  sway, 

My  aimless  hour  might  guide  your  way. 

I  have  no  wish  to  own  your  tale, 

But  fearful  of  a  stranger  ail 

The  night  may  bring,  I  fain  would  see 

A  maid  so  fair,  more  housed  than  thee.* 

A  briefer  speech,  but  crushing  more, 

Since  statue-form  did  not  restore 

The  ease  he  lost  at  sound  of  voice 

By  single  line:  "It  is  my  choice 

To  linger  here  through  dewy  eve, 

And  weep  and  wail,  and  lowly  grieve; 

But  thanks  I -give  for  proffered  aid, 

To  one  so  seeming  woeful  maid; 

But  could  you  know.my  tale  of  woe, 

How  better  now  my  blood  should  flow, 

And  dye  your  blade  with  love-born  sorrow- 

That's  glittering  now  in  gaudy  show!" 

"My  steps  were  aimless  in  their  way, 

And  buoyant  heart  in  mellow  lay, 

Told  well  no  purpose  named  my  route, 

'Neath  spectral  trees  that  mime  and  flout, 


TZTE  LADY  OF  DABDALE.  4T 

And  ere  sweet  Luna's  silvery  face 
The  mystic  shadows  soft  did  trace, 
My  steps  had  ta'en  me  from  this  place, 
And  housed  with  blazing  fire  before, 
O'er  all  the  past  to  ponder,  pore, 
I  ne'er  might  known  this  fairy  maid, 
That  in  her  woe  seems  not  afraid, 
I  ne'er  might  known  this  trysting-dell 
Had  won  a  tale  no  art  can  tell." 

XXXIV. 

As  in  a  dream  he  pondered  long, 
On  all  his  acts,  the  brooklet  song, 
On  meeting  here  sad  Sorrow's  maid 
Beneath  the  treetops'  softened  shade, 
On  how  he  lingered  'spite  of  will 
To  feast  his  gaze,  to  feast  his  fill, 
And  how  at  last  his  voice  had  broken 
The  stillness  round  in  saddest  token, 
And  how  her  form  was  moveless  then, 

Was  moveless  as  before, 
No  eye  his  eye  did  lifting  ken, 

No  eye  its  glance  did  pour. 
Enough,  mayhap,  his  words  had  said 
To  gain  reply  though  joy  were  fled 
From  mystic  maid  that  held  him  there, 
As  he  were  kin  of  her  despair; 
But  nameless  love,  or  like,  or  dread, 
Had  held  him  there,  his  mind  had  wed, 

Till  now  no  art  to  lend  him  flight, 
To  fly  the  form,  this  maid  in  white; 
A  word,  a  look,  and  from  the  scene 
Thro'  hovering  night  and  moonlit  sheen 
His  steps  had  gone.    But  silent  there 
As  statuesque  in  chill  despair, 

A  wood-nymph  turned  to  stone, 
She  silent  sat,  but  sweetly  fair, 

Enwon  his  heart,  his  moan. 
"The  dews  are  falling,  falling  fast, 

The  eve  is  chill  and  cold, 
A  storm  seems  gathering  in  the  blast 

To  drench  this  leafy  fold; 
I  bid  thee  speak  and  tell  thy  ail, 

I  bid  thee  speak  and  tell  me  go! 
My  form  is  all  unclosed  of  mail, 
And  love-tears  might  meekly  flow." 
"Sir  knight  my  ail  is  mine  alone, 
No  other  heart  my  ail  shall  own; 


48  .         THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALEc 

I  bid  you  stay,  if  such  your  -will!" 

O  deathly  calm!    O  deathly  still! 

Sir  Henri  Yale  stood  moveless  there! 
O  deathly  pale !    O  eyes  that  fill  I 

O  heart  that  throbs  in  love's  despair! 
Oh  crushing  memory  of  the  past ! 
And  had  they  met  at  last!  at  last! 
'Twere  truly,  truly,  truly  said, 
Before  him  bowed  the  Dardale  maid, 
Who  years  agone  had  named  his  woe, 
Who  years  agone  had  won  a  foe 
In  Lacy  lord,  the  Castle  knight, 
And  favorite  of  her  sire, 
Since  there  and  then  a  luckless  wight, 
Where  Cupid's  dart  had  taken  flight, 
To  love  did  bold  aspire. 
"Emilia!"'    Volumes  in  that  word! 
And  she  sad  maid,  like  fluttering  bird 
At  hunter's  'proach,  or  reckless  boy 
Half  started  up  in  woe  or  joy, 
And  there  in  even's  dusky  ray, 
Where  moonlight  shadows  soft  did  play, 
Showed  love,  surprise,  and  mingled  dread! 
"O  Henri!  Henri!  and  not  dead!" 
And  voiceless  there  in  love's  sweet  shock, 
She  sunk  upon  the  mossy  rock, 
And  fainting  there,  his  stronger  arm 
Soft  stayed  her  form  from  seeming  harm, 
And  gently,  gently  as  is  love, 

He  spread  his  cloak  on  dewy  ground, 
And  from  the  brook  that  softly  strove 
Thro'  mossy  bank,  and  dell  and  "cove, 

He  cooled  the  brow  in  deathly  swound! 
Oh  love!  oh  love!  thou  god  of  earth! 

Thy  sweetest,  softest  spell  is  found 
Where  laughing  rills  and  flowers  find  birth, 

And  naught  of  earthly  voice  shall  sound; 
Where  maids  shall  reign  in  seraph  guise, 

And  Venus  shines  from  heaven 
Where  love  is  found  a  sweet  surprise, 

And  joys  on  joys  are  given! 


A  shred  of  life,  its  lights  and  shades, 
Is  past,  is  gone,  and  laughing  maids 
Are  thoughtless  of  the  life  that  was, 
That  bending  true  to  Nature's  laws, 
Found  life  and  love  a  passing  dream, 
With  good  and  bad  the  gods  between, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  LAUD  ALE.  49 

Where  light  and  shade,  the  changing  hues, 
As  clouds  that  ride  the  bended  blues, 
The  flowers  that  nod  with  even's  dews, 
The  will-o'-the-wisp  the  youth  pursues, 
The  varying  colors  rainbows  claim, 
The  shadows  soft  in  firelight  name; 
And  if  her  picture  true  to  life, 
The  care,  the  woe,  the  love,  the  strife, 
Then,  maid,  thyself  Emilia  fair, 
With  auburn,  brown,  or  sunlight  hair, 
The  blue,  the  black,  the  hazel  eye, 
The  arching  neck,  the  manner  shy, 
The  amorous  gaze,  the  artless  wile, 
A  form  the  thoughts  shall  ne'er  defile, 
Susceptive  heart  that  other  Vales 
Shall  try,  for  love  his  maid  assails 
In  any  age,  and  every  garb, 
But  ever  same  soft  honeyed  barb, 
Tho'  different  lover,  different  maid, 
The  love  shall  steal,  the  night  arrayed 
In  showery  hues,  shall  seem  the  same, 
And  stealing  moon  the  secrets  claim, 
That  Adam  knew  in  Eden's  bower 
Where  love  that  rosy-tipt  the  hour, 
Shone  but  the  love  we  know  to-day, 
Confiding,  doubting,  loving  alway. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  THE  SECOND. 

And  love  united  claimed  the  shade 
Where  never  merrier  shadows  played, 
And  all  the  dark  was  from  the  night, 
Emilia's  woe  had  ta'en  its  flight, 
And  joy,  surprise  in  mingled  guise, 
In  kingly  port  had  won  her  eyes, 
And  scene  so  black  a  moment  gone, 
Now  shone  with  brightness  of  the  dawn; 
And  sang  the  brook  in  merrier  tune, 
And  April  flowers  in  budding  bloom 
Looked  out  from  nook  and  cleft  of  thought, 
And  shades  that  came  in  garbs  to  shock, 
Now  shone,  now  sparkled,  all  the  air 
Of  peace  and  joy  seemed  breathing  there, 
And  brook,  and  tree,  the  veriest  bush, 
In  holy  calmness  there  did  hush 
The  dagger  woes  that  pierced  the  night, 


60  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Emilia's  breast  in  direful  plight, 

And  lent  a  darkness  only  love 

Can  paint  in  woe.    The  night-hues  strove, 

The  trees  were  swaying  to  and  fro, 

The  stream  in  merriest  tone  did  go, 

The  queen  of  sky  was  riding  high, 

The  bat  on  heavy  wing  did  fly, 

The  e'en-dews  wept  and  bowed  the  flower, 

And  softly,  slowly  stole  the  hour; 

And  yet  the  tree,  the  stream,  the  sky, 

Are  vainly  lost  to  'Milia's  eye! 

And  Henri  e'en  as  dull  of  gaze, 

A  fairer  thing  in  beauty's  rays 

Had  made  him  helpless  in  his  view, 

And  bird  nor  cloud  that  swam  the  blue, 

No  shred  of  beauty  to  his  een, 

But  all  was  wrapt  in  loveliest  scene, 

That  love  alone  could  paint  with  skill, 

Where  bubbling  fountain,  laughing  rill, 

The  thousand  beauties  hearts  shall  know, 

When  each  in  love  shall  melting  flow 

On  brightest  stream  where  flowers  line 

The  winding  banks,  and  trees  incline 

Their  mellow  shade.  And  worlds  might  move, 

But  Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  was  love! 

Yet  hark!  the  love-tale  half  unsaid, 

The  welling  tears  in  muteness  shed, 

The  broken  lives,  a  sire's  command, 

The  seeking,  longing,  winds  that  fanned 

A  various  breeze,  lent  dread,  lent  hope, 

And  there  in  darkness  blind  to  grope, 

When  sounds  across  the  forest  vale 

The  lovers'  ears  in  fright  assail, 

And  trampling  feet  on  rotted  wood, 

That  not  the  heavy  tread  withstood, 

Gave  token  dread  that  111,  in  might, 

Was  strolling  chieftain  thro'  the  night; 

A  cry,  surprise,  a  maddened  word, 

And  swords  are  clashing,  loudly  heard 

The  woods  re-echo,  echo  o'er, 

Till  Beauty's  eyes  in  beauty  'plore 

The  reckless  Lacy  cease  from  strife, 

And  take  if  either,  'Milia's  life! 

Hark!  madly,  madly  thro'  the  night 

The  Lord  Graville  in  tanieless  flight, 

Is  rushing  like  the  swirling  wind, 

That  whirs  and  rushes  mad  behind; 

A  harsh  command,  an  ireful  look, 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  51 

And  sound  alone  the  winding  brook! 
'Tis  gone!    The  maid,  the  lover,  where? 
The  night  is  silent,  and  the  air 
In  calmness  swept  the  voiceless  scene, 
No  tale  of  aught  that  once  had  been. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


What  man  shall  feel  love's  sweetest  flame, 
Shall  sigh  at  mention  of  his  name, 
Shall  wish  to  live  or  wish  to  die, 
And  all  for  love  that  rays  his  eye, 
But  feel  that  here  in  dusky  eve, 
'Twere  vainly  vain  to  faint  or  grieve? 
His  love  is  but  the  like  of  him 
Who  smiles  on  love  a  cynic  grim, 
He  has  no  heart,  he  has  no  soul, 
He  knows  no  love  that  softly  stole 
To  heart  of  youth,  and  heart  of  maid, 
And  earth  were  heaven  sweet  arrayed, 
While  Beauty  there  in  fleckless  garb, 
The  victim  fair  of  Cupid's  barb, 
E'er  lives  and  dies  in  softest  sighs, 
And  feels  a  god  beneath  the  skies 
This  matchless  youth  who  won  her  heart, 
And  soothed  the  pain  of  Cupid's  dart; 
For  him  no  tale  the  poet  tells, 
For  him  110  music  amorous  swells, 
For  him  my  task  were  vain  indeed, 
For  him  'twere  vain  that  hearts  should  bleed, 
For  him  'twere  vain  that  poets  live, 
For  love  that  heaven's  hand  shall  give, 
Is  goddess  of  the  poet's  heart, 
Is  all  in  all  the  poet's  art; 
And  he  that  feels  no  madness  in  the  brain 
When  happy  love,  and  maid,  and  youth  shall  reign, 
No  tremor  shakes  his  form  as  darting  go 
The  varied  scenes  of  love,  and  life  in  woe, 
Will  rise  no  bard,  a  poet  true  to  life, 
For  tame  his  fire  and  weak  his  numbers'  strife. 
A  backward  glance  to  great  and  glowing  past, 
When  verse  was  writ  its  sculptures  shall  outlast, 
The  greatest  love  has  named  the  greatest  bard, 
And  in  his  diadem  all  golden  starred 


52  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Dan  Cupid  reigns  the  matchless  king  of  all, 

With  love-eyed  Beauty  e'er  within  his  thrall. 

'Tis  Burns  that  stands  the  greatest  bard  of  love, 

That  whelmed  his  life  tho'  madly  there  he  strove* 

His  power  was  kin  of  wild  Mazeppan  steed, 

As  tameless  e'er,  and  mad,  and  bold  of  speed, 

No  power  to  check  his  lover-mad  career, 

No  hand  to  stay  the  sad  impassioned  tear; 

But  later  age  has  seen  with  critic  eye, 

But  not  till  love,  and  life,  and  bard  did  die! 

O  Justice!  Justice!  with  thy  fieckless  breath, 

If  not  in  life  thy  reign  shall  come  with  death! 

Oh  happy  we  that  Homer-like  shall  find 

A  coming  age  when  justice  is  not  blind! 

See  Avon's  bard,  the  greatest  mind  of  all, 

He  sighed  for  love,  and  wrote  of  love  withal, 

His  tales  of  love  are  faultless  in  his  verse, 

The  greatest  love  the  greatest  loves  rehearse, 

And  he  that  feels  the  passion  most  in  heart, 

Shall  own  a  Cupid  with  the  sweetest  dart, 

The  strength  in  brain  shall  show  its  strength  in  verse, 

The  greatest  power  the  greatest  powers  rehearse, 

And  if  the  bard  that  writes  a  lovelorn  tale 

Shall  find  no  tears,  no  voice  to  weep  and  wail, 

Be  sure  his  verse  has  not  the  natural  flow 

Of  him  who  feels  and  melts  at  every  woe, 

Of  him  who  weeps  with  Beauty  lost  in  tears, 

Of  him  who  feels  the  joys,  the  woes,  the  fears, 

That  are  of  love  where  love  is  truly  found, 

And  helpless  hearts  in  helpless  arts  are  bound. 

See  Dickens  crying  o'er  his  Florence  maid, 

So  strong  the  picture  drawn  his  mind  arrayed; 

Look  through  the  past  and  ken  the  sweep  of  years, 

No  scholar's  art  to  see  them  more  than  peers 

Who  feel  the  strongest  what  their  minds  have  wrought, 

Who  live  the  battles  that  their  heroes  fought, 

Who  when  their  verse  resounds,  "On,  Stanleys,  on!" 

The  blood  is  rushing,  and  the  fires  are  born 

That  win  the  hero  from  the  tame-eyed  man, 

That  win  the  hero  heroes'  eyes  shall  scan, 

And  bard  alone  has  reined  the  mad-eyed  steed, 

'Tis  bard  alone  whose  surging  breast  does  bleed, 

And  when  the  shock,  the  battle-smoke  is  cleared, 

The  forms  are  dead  that  heroes  loudly  cheered, 

The  bard  is  weak  from  strain  his  nerves  have  borne, 

The  spell  is  gone, — his  sabre-arm  is  shorn, 

And  lifeless  there  in  contrast  with  the  scene, 

A  tameness  then,  and  knights  of  softened  mien. 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE.  53 

ii. 

Love's  sweetest  spell  that  Henri  felt, 
In  softest  phrase  did  softly  melt, 
In  language  of  the  eye,  the  soul, 
No  bell  was  there  a  dirge  to  toll, 
All,  all  was  love  in  burning  breast, 
In  face,  in  eye  was  true  confessed, 
And  while  the  form  so  sweet,  so  fair, 
In  half  surprise  did  gaze,  did  stare, 
His  soul  wrfs  manned,  the  language  came, 
In  whispered  love  true  love  shall  claim, 
And  sacred  there  'neatli  Luna's  ray, 
And  trees  where  spectral  shades  did  play, 
He  poured  the  tale  that  hearts  shall  feel 
When  love  unsullied  soft  shall  steal, 
Unconscious  half,  and  there  does  seem 
The  flitting  fay  of  fairy  dream. 

in. 
The  truest  love  does  often  come 

In  silence  o'er  the  heart, 
And  like  religion  found  at  home 

Reigns  faultless,  shorn  of  art; 
'Tis  often  mystic  in  the  brain 

Of  him  who  feels  its  power, 
And  aimless  there  in  silent  reign 

Does  puzzle  hour  on  hour; 
'Tis  often  true  a  maid  may  love 

And  feel  'tis  only  like, 
But  when  the  shaft  drawn  from  above 

Her  loving  heart  shall  strike, 
The  mystery's  gone,  the  youth  is  plain, 
And  matchless  reigns  within  her  brain. 

IV. 

Oh  love  like  this  that  time  has  broken, 

And  years  on  years  have  rolled  away, 
And  left  its  shreds  in  saddest  token, 

'Twere  better  far  that  love  should  slay! 
"That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget? 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love?" 
No,  ne'er  forget,  for  love  that's  true 

Has  won  immortal  birth, 
No  other  hand  shall  e'er  bestrew 

Its  fane  with  flowers  of  earth; 
And  Henri's  love  for  Dardale  maid, 
Had  gained  its  reign,  and  matchless  stayed, 


TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE, 

A  father's  hand  had  torn  apart, 
Their  lives  that  wed  a  part  to  part. 

v. 

The  days  were  gone,  the  years  were  fled,. 
And  each  the  other  felt  was  dead, 
But  time  and  tide  had  joined  their  hands,. 
And  bravely  there  Sir  Henri  stands, 
A  hero's  thoughts  have  manned  his  soul, 
And  at  the  past  his  eyes  may  roll, 
For  deeds  another  hand  has  done, 
'Neath  other  skies,  another  sun; 
But  ah,  my  Henri !  all  too  soon 
Thy  sabre's  length  beneath  the  moon, 
Shall  trickle  drops  of  reddest  blood! 

While  Murder's  hand  upstarts; 
And  there  where  love  with  love  has  strove,. 

Shall  well  from  Jealousy's  hearts 
In  mingled  tide,  the  blood  of  love, 

While  weeping,  wailing,  fainting  there, 
Emilia's  form,  a  fleckless  dove, 

Shall  feel  the  woe  of  love's  despair. 

VI. 

"Emilia!"  for  in  voiceful  love, 

In  whispered  word  that  softly  wove 

A  network  spiced  of  joys,  had  found 

Its  tone,  and  lowrly  there  did  sound 

His  every  word  that  time  had  won 

From  busy  scenes  that  now  begun 

Again,  soft  led  the  train  that  fell 

A  word  on  word  in  passing  spell. 

"Emilia,  first  to  me  your  care, 

And  safer  from  the  lion's  lair, 

The  teeming  past  shall  name  your  word, 

The  teeming  past  alone  is  heard." 

And  there:  "Oh,  Henri!  true  was  said 

Where  love  and  life  are  fondly  wed, 

A  crooked  path  shall  wind  about, 

And  lights  and  shades  flit  in  and  out." 

"But  may  your  sorrow  need  no  balm, 

No  roof  to  shelter  from  the  harm, 

That  night  may  hold?    Come,  come  away! 

'Twere  death  to  linger  here — but  stay! 

A  thousand  thoughts  have  manned  my  brain, 

A  thousand  thoughts  that  still  remain — ' 

"Oh,  Henri !  sit  thee  here  and  list 

The  tale  where  love  and  woe  have  kict, 

No  harm  shall  come  while  you  are  here, 


THE  LADY  OF  DAIWALE.  65 

So  quell,  oh  quell  thine  anxious  fear." 

And  there,  my  maiden,  pure  as  stars 

That  slant  the  sky  in  golden  bars, 

The  loving  pair  that  love  had  won 

To  joy  and  woe  since  love  begun, 

Found  mossy  stone  a  chair  for  both, 

And  plighting  there  their  sacred  troth, 

Had  not  a  care  or  thought  of  other, 

E'en  friend  or  friendship,  home  or  brother. 

"I  fled  alone;  no  waiting  maid, 

But  longer  might  I  not  have  stayed; 

And  if  my  garb,  my  mien  at  fault, 

Shall  make  your  mind,  your  thought  revolt, 

List  all  my  tale,  and  soothly  say, 

And  never,  never  sadder  lay." 

VII. 

A  mellow  shade  fell  o'er  the  scene, 

The  monster  trees  in  flouting  green, 

The  merry  brook  sang  merrier  still, 

And  wound  and  turned  in  playful  will. 

The  scene  was  one  that  love  might  paint, 

Where  Nature's  songs  soft  melting  faint, 

And  leave  a  sweetness  as  the  tone 

Where  wind  o'er  harpstrings  soft  has  flown; 

An  accident  few  lives  shall  know, 

Had  mingled  love  and  tryst  and  woe, 

No  fairer  haunt  might  lovers  seek, 

No  fairer  place  for  love  to  speak; 

And  there  in  even's  shadowy  ray, 

E'en  thought  to  thought  no  tongue  might  say, 

E'en  soul  to  soul  in  sweetness  wed, 

E'en  heart  to  heart  where  love  had  led. 

The  hour  was  past,  and  heeded  not, 

The  night  grew  on,  and  shadows  caught 

The  softer  hues  of  lightsome  eve, 

The  sun  had  sunk,  the  night  did  grieve 

Ere  Memory's  hand  had  strewn  the  scene 

With  joys  and  woes  in  vying  sheen, 

A  lover's  plight  in  love-song  rung, 

Where  Eros-god  the  glove  had  flung 

As  victor  in  the  ring, 
And  round  them  both  as  amorous  clung 

As  joy  that  reigns  a  king. 

"DO  YOU  LOVE  ME?" 

"Do  you  love  me,  Mollie  May, 
Laughing,  laughing  all  the  day, 


56  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Eyes  as  sweet  and  soft  and  gay, 
As  the  dancing  sunlight  ray; 
Do  you  love  me,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Do  you  love  me,  Enoch  Bright, 
Dancing,  dancing  like  the  light 
O'er  the  water  pure  and  white, 
Shining  like  the  stars  of  night; 
Do  you  love  me,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Do  I  love  you,  Mollie,  true? 
Does  the  flower  love  the  dew, 
And  the  lark  the  mellow  blue, 
And  the  sea  the  flighty  mew? — 
Yes,  I  love  you;  yes,  I  love  you." 

"Do  I  love  you,  Enoch,  dear? 
Does  the  lover  love  the  tear, 
Ever  love  without  a  fear, 
Ever  babe  that  had  a  peer? — 
Yes,  I  love  you;  yes,  I  love  you." 

Priest  and  Enoch. 
"And  you  take  her  for  your  wife?" 
"Does  the  llama  weep  from  life, 
Ever  kingdom  free  of  strife, 
Ever  tale  that  was  not  rife? 
Yes,  oh  father;  yes,  oh  father." 

Priest  and  Mollie. 
"And  your  husband  shall  he  be?" 
"Ever  love  that  would  be  free 
When  its  mate  shall  make  the  plea, 
And  the  first  to  maiden's  e'e? — ; 
Yes,  oh  father;  yes,  oh  father." 

Priest,  Mollie  and  Enoch. 
"Thou  art  one,  O  thou  art  one!" 
"Yes,  oh  father;  life's  begun, 
Love  from  love  a  love  has  won." 
"May  our  acts  as  true  be  done, 
Love,  the  master,  Love,  the  master." 

All. 

"And  His  blessing  on  your  love, 
Melting,  melting  from  above, 
Soft  and  pure  as  fleckless  dove; 
May  no  lesser  power  move!" 
"Love  shall  guide  us,  love  shall  guide  us!" 


THE  LADY  OFDARDALE.  67 

VIII. 

And  died  the  song  like  hush  of  eve, 
But  soon  there  came  and  soft  did  weave 
Her  maiden  voice  a  tale  that  time 
Had  woven  like  a  jarring  rhyme, 
And  o'er  the  past  her  thought  did  sweep, 
While  joys  and  woes  did  vying  leap 
From  teeming  brain,  and  softly  fell 
Like  numbers  lone  of  funeral  bell. 
"The  years  are  mist  since  one  with  one 
Your  love  and  mine  at  first  begun, 
'Neath  hawthorn  green  by  castle  wall, 
When  Luna's  rays  did  softer  fall 
Than  ballroom  lights  that  named  our  love, 
And  fanned  a  flame  that  mocked  at  Jove; 
A  father's  wrath  in  power  and  might 
Then  vented  there  its  ireful  spite, 
Your  life  was  marked  for  shameful  death, 
'Twas  Lacy's  hand  would  rob  your  breath 
And  I  less  brave,  more  fearful  found, 
Did  hear  thy  knell  in  solemn  sound. 
It  was  a  blow,  but  safety  won, 
And  you  were  gone  ere  night  was  done; 
The  fault  were  mine  if  any  found, 
The  fault  were  mine  if  e'er  did  sound 
A  woeful  voice  thro'  woeful  days. 
You  would  have  stayed,  but  bloody  frays 
Had  shed  the  blood  that  flowed  for  me, 
Had  named  a  grave  where  weeping  beauty 
Might  helpless  bow,  might  aimless  weep, 
For  one  whose  love  she  might  not  keep; 
I  bade  you  go  and  time  should  fall 
When  power  and  might  not  all  in  all, 
Should  sink  beneath  the  softer  wave 
Where  fairer  waters  e'er  did  lave, 
And  goodness  ever  part  of  man, 
Encrown  his  heart  when  choler's  ban 
Had  warped  his  will  from  conscious  love, 
And  ri^ht  and  wrong  both  madly  strove. 
The  morning  dawned  as  fair  as  aye, 
And  Pho3bus  rose  in  mellow  ray, 
But  love  and  life  so  happy  born, 
Were  shed  in  blackness  o'er  the  dawn, 
A  father's  hand  unconscious  yet 
Of  cruel  wrong,  could  not  forget 
The  fete  that  won  me  from  his  heart, 
The  night  where  light  and  shade  did  part, 
The  mystic  Vale  that  claimed  his  child, 


68  TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

All,  all  had  dawned  when  Sol-god  smiled. 
His  accents  now  came  with  a  chill, — 
Enough,  enough,  he  had  his  will! 

IX. 

"The  days  flew  on,  and  slowly  came 

A  conscious  hope  that  time  might  name 

A  happy  day  when  Lacy  dead 

True  love  in  love  might  clasping  shed 

The  lingering  joys  that  took  the  hue 

That  distance  lends  to  fleeting  view, 

And  Hymen's  reign  forever  end 

Where  good  and  bad  at  once  contend 

For  mastery  o'er  a  plotting  sire, 

The  tearful  woe  that  love  so  dire 

Had  won  to  scenes  that  once  were  fair 

As  dew^y  love  that  'rayed  the  pair;* 

But  vainly  vain,  no  Henri  came, 

No  breath  had  breathed  his  knightly  name, 

And  feeling  then  he  must  have  wed, 

Or  on  the  field  was  lying  dead, 

Reluctant  then  I  gave  consent, 

Not  feeling,  knowing  what  it  meant! 

They  'rayed  my  form  in  garments  fair! 

They  gloomed  my  heart  in  dark  despair; 

They  made  a  wedding  matchless  then  1 

A  matchless  woe  was  there  to  ken; 

The  lamps  were  lighted,  blazing  fair, 

But  ah,  but  ah,  the  old  despair! 

The  ballroom  blaze,  the  ballroom  glare, 

And  cries  and  wails  that  filled  the  air, 

Were  mingling  with  the  wedding  scene, 

And  madly  there  'neath  starlight  sheen 

I  wildly  ran  I  knew  not  where ! 

A  cry  was  raised  in  mad  despair, 

The  knights,  and  courtiers,  guests,  and  all, 

Rushed  madly,  wildly  from  the  hall; 

But  mad  despair  its  maddened  flight 

Had  lent  my  form,  and  thro'  the  night 

A  wild  gazelle  I  madly  sped! 

I  heard  the  sounds,  the  heavy  tread! 

It  seems  a  dream;  I  fainted  here! 

The  sounds  were  gone,  no  being  near; 

And  Henri!  Henri!  e'en  my  flight 

May  end  in  woe  ere  dawning  light! 

The  scene  is  gone.    Your  saf  ty  here 

Is  full  of  doubt.    The  night  is  clear; 

*Ailam  and  Eve. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Go,  go!  ere  Lacy  in  his  wrath 
'Gan  find  my  Henri  in  his  path!" 


"If  such  your  wish  but  bid  me  stay, 

'Tis  Lacy  lord  shall  feel  my  sway, 

'Tis  Lacy  lord  shall  die  or  slay, 

Lady  Emilia,  never  say 

A  Henri  fled  before  a  foe 

That  named  Emilia's  direful  woe, 

Unworthy  of  your  very  love, 

So  help  me,  help  me,  mighty  Jove ! 

Thy  tale's  enough  to  man  a  soul 

Where  man  and  horse  shall  tumbling  roll, 

Where  battle's  fiery  shot  shall  pour, 

The  dead  and  dying  in  their  gore, 

Grim  havoc,  death,  and  bloody  war, 

The  sabres  lawless  of  the  law, 

Strike  down  the  foe  in  mad  career, 

And  feel  no  sigh,  no  pity's  tear! 

My  blade  has  rusted  in  its  shield 

Since  fair  Emilia's  word  appealed 

To  hearing  ear,  an  open  heart, 

But  love  alone  the  blade  could  start, 

Yet  love  alone  could  stay  the  brand, 

'Tis  love  shall  bid  me  fly  or  stand! 

A.dieu !  adieu !  if  such  your  will, 

And  Lacy's  blade  no  blood  shall  spill!" 

XI. 

"My  love  is  one  that  will  obey, 
Emilia's  voice  shall  bid  you  stay, 
'Tis  she  alone  knows  well  your  power, 
And  she  alone  in  any  hour 
Would  see  her  Henri  meet  his  foe, 
And  Valor's  blood  as  bravely  flow 
As  minstrels  tell  of  misty  past 
When  quarter  never  man  did  ask, 
When  Hectors  met  Achilles  brave, 
When  weaker  knew  a  yawning  grave 
Was  gaping  wide  to  claim  the  dust 
That  Anger's  arm  was  brave  to  trust, 
When  strength  and  prowess  named  alone 
The  victor  with  his  form  of  stone, 
When  Valor's  might  won  Valor's  wreath, 
And  named  the  hero,  knight  or  chief.' 
Oh  then,  my  Henri,  bravery  won, 
And  shone  in  beauty  as  the  sun, 


60  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  thus  my  lord  or  knight  of  fame, 
Did  ever  own  a  matchless  name, 
In  oral  phrase  from  land  to  land, 
By  Beauty's  voice,  and  Victor's  hand, 
His  name  was  floating  far  and  wide, 
'Twas  fame  alone  that  named  his  bride; 
And  Henri,  though  the  wish  be  bold, 
My  teeming  eye  would  brave  behold 
My  Henri  Lacy  meet  in  arms, 
Decide  by  blow  which  owns  the  charms 
Each  sees  in  maid  his  heart  has  won — ' 
"Emilia  mine,  'tis  done!  'tis  done! 
Your  father's  word  shall  name  the  hour, 
Your  father's  eye  see  tested  power! 
'Twas  peerless  fame  that  won  his  heart 
To  Lacy  knight  that  knows  the  art 
That  lays  a  foe  all  bleeding  dead, 
No  cheek  to  blanch  o'er  blood  that's  shed! 
My  Dardale  maid !  my  Dardale  love ! 
You've  named  the  fray  that  stars  above 
Shall  witness  yet,  shall  witness  soon, 
De  Lacy's  death  or  Henri's  doom, 
The  only  feat  to  win  a  heart 
That  glories  in  the  knightly  art. 
The  time  is  gone  when  Conrad  brave 
The  every  wish  his  heart  did  crave, 
Was  patent  found  to  Lord  Graville, 
And  every  freak  of  warrior's  will. 
'Twas  Lacy's  place  he  held  till  time 
Another  wreath  did  matchless  twine, 
Yet  young  in  arms,  I  kenned  the  fight 
In  early  morn's  translucent  light, 
The  fray  was  long,  but  bravery  won; 
And  there  with  blows  a  heart  shall  stun, 
He  laid  the  Conrad  in  the  dust ! 
He  never  rose;  the  sabre  thrust 
Had  pierced  his  mail,  and  dying  there, 
His  eyes  grim  fixed  in  glassy  stare ! 
Enough!  'twas  Lacy  rose  the  king 
Of  Dardale;  and  his  name  did  ring 
From  border  to  the  border's  verge, 
From  vale  to  vale,  to  ocean's  surge; 
And  Lord  Graville  encrowned  him  there 
Thrice  worthy,  worthy  of  the  fair! 
And  now,  my  'Milia,  here  alone, 
Where  night  is  on  in  solemn  tone, 
You  wait  the  shock  each  hour  may  bring; 
But  have  a  hope  to-morrow '11  ring 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDA  LE.  61 

With  armor  cleft,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  from  the  dust  that  breath  may  choke, 

Ne'er  more  shall  rise  the  vanquished  loe  ; 

For  long  as  'Milia's  tears  shall  flow 

In  wedless  maidhood,  then  my  arms 

May  win  or  lose  her  peerless  charms'! 

The  custom  holds  in  castle  hall, 

That  matchless,  matchless  over  all 

The  hero  claims  the  maid  alone 

To-morrow's  dawn  shall  lose  or  own, 

The  Maid  of  Dardale  fairest  found  ! 

The  glove  shall  fall  upon  the  ground, 

And  Lacy  there  as  brave  to  dare, 

Shall  win  or  lose  the  fairest  fair! 

But  ere  the  weaning  moon  shall  fade, 

Oh  sing  with  me  my  matchless  maid, 

The  border-song  that  names  our  life;— 

Ere  night  and  morn  shall  be  at  strife, 

Soft  take  our  way  to  safer  tryst, 

Where  sweetest  love  and  peace  have  kist, 

And  war  and  woe  and  feat  of  arms 

Have  naught  of  power  with  Beauty's  charms!" 


BOKDEK-SONG. 

1. 

Cupid  arose  on  the  soft  wind  in  blushes, 

Winging  his  way  to  the  Mountains  of  Yale, 
And  sweet  as  the  babe  that  the  mother  soft  hushes, 
Boldly  and  boldly  his  heart  did  assail, 

Mischief  in  artless  glance, 

As  in  a  heartless  trance, 
Madly  and  madly  the  victim  of  woe, 

Forcing  this  Henri  Vale, 

Lover-love  all  his  ail, 
Hector  him,  hector  him,  where'er  he  go. 

2. 
Maiden  a  fairy  came  thro'  the  soft  gloaming, 

Cupid  sweet  tracing  her  route  in  the  air, 
For  love  was  his  own,  and  with  her  soft  roaming, 
He'd  take  her  to  scenes  in  Castle  Vale  where 
Henri  knight  slumbered  not, 
Eros-god  bravely  fought, 
Contest  in  mail  with  the  dart  and  the  spear, 
Quicker  by  weaker  shield, 
Cupid-god  fleeter  wheeled, 
Yet  drew  not  his  blood,  but  many  a  sad  tear. 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

3. 
Feasting  and  dancing  had  met  the  gray  morning, 

Love  to  their  hearts  in  the  even  was  born, 
Came  there  no  goddess  to  say  the  grim  warning 
Over  their  sweet  lives  in  blackness  would  dawn 
Bitter  love's  woeful  scene, 
Truest  love's  flowful  een, 

Filling  their  sweet  days  with  weeping  and  wail, 
Glooming  their  lover-life, 
Causing  them  woeful  strife, 
And  all  for  the  fault  of  loving  a  Yale. 

4. 
At  feud  were  the  parents  of  maid  and  of  lover, 

The  clansmen  had  fought,  and  the  bale-fires  had  blazed, 
And  over  the  Vales  and  Gravities  there  did  hover 
Stygian  clouds  their  feud-anger  had  raised; 
Bitter  the  eye-fire  gaze, 
Higher  the  need-fire  blaze, 
Friendly  clans  coming  from  far  and  from  near, 
Burning  in  heaven's  blue, 
Signal-signs'  flaring  hue, 
Warning  that  clans  come  with  axe  and  with  spear. 

5. 
Anger  it  was,  and  a  border-life  story, 

Sparkling  with  valor  thro'  night  and  thro'  morn, 
Honors  to  some,  and  to  others  death's  glory, 
Orphans  left  weeping  sad,  widows  to  mourn; 
Closer  the  warriors  lock, 
Louder  the  battle  shock, 

Sounding  the  death-knell  of  man  and  of  steed; 
Slashing  breast,  cleaving  sight, 
Killing  steed,  warrior  knight, 
Bleeding,  and  bleeding,  in  feud-death  to  bleed. 

6. 

Foolish  the  story  though  sweetly  enchanting, 
Foolish  the  warriors  that  fought  in  the  feud, 
Foolish  my  love-song  the  gods  will  be  granting, 
Foolish  the  telling  if  ever  renewed; — 
But  you  are  singing  not, 
Goddess  voice  ringing  not, 
Looking  the  fearing  that  comes  to  the  maid, 
Feeling  the  bitter  sighs, 
Welling  where  Cupid  flies, 
Jealous-like  dreadings  old  time  feuds  have  made. 


THE  LADY  OF DAEDALE.  63 


Weeping,  love,  weeping,  but  why  art  thou  weeping? 

Stories  of  Henri  shall  never  be  sad, 
Banish  the  woe-dread  now  over  you  creeping, 
Cupid's  here  sweeter  than  Paphian  lad! 

Henri  knight  worries  not, 

Lacy  knight  hurries  not, 
Filling  our  hearts  with  the  bitter  of  woe, 

Anger  in  madder  pace, 

Hatred  in  sadder  face, 
Longing  the  life-blood  of  Henri  should  flow. 

8. 
Banish  the  dreadings  from  heart  of  my  fairy, 

"Weeping  and  wailing  are  not  of  our  love, 
Henri  with  'Milia  e'er  fondly  would  tarry, 
Warning  tho'  Sol-god  shine  down  from  above, 
Telling  us  lover-joy, 
Liker  is  Bacchus-boy, 

Sprinkled  with  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  life, 
Cannot  last,  ever  last, 
Sweeter  than  honeyed  blast, 
Filling  our  days  with  the  wickedest  strife. 

9. 
But  our  life-story,  I'll  finish  in  glory, 

Sweetly  then  crowning  you  Queen  of  my  heart, 
Angels  attending  when  anchorite  hoary 
Husband,  wife  sounding,  asunder  ne'er  part! 
Heaven-love  binding  us, 
Cupid  unminding  us, 
Marriage  tie  sweetly  uilsuiting  his  dart, 
Caring  for  maiden's  love, 
Hopeless  once  chained  dove, 
Laughing  and  laughing  he  flies  from  her  heart. 

VI. 

But  hark!  the  sound  of  rushing  feet, 

As  mighty  host  a  host  shall  meet ! 
As  heavy  sound  where  cavalry  rushes  on! 
The  roaring  wind  that  brews  the  coming  storm! 
The  sweep  of  battle  mingling  blood  with  blood! 
The  rushing  waters  whirling  to  a  flood! 
Oh  loving  pair!  what  direful,  direful  sound, 
That  breaks  the  night  and  loudly  echoes  round? 
But  ere  the  knight  could  ken  what  hurried  on— 
"There,  sir's,  your  bride  of  yester-evening  gone!" 
Broke  boldly  on  the  trembling,  quaking  Vale, 


64:  THE  LADY  OF  DA RDA LE. 

And  twenty  horse  with  riders  all  in  mail, 

Drew  sudden  rein  before  the  hopeless  pair ; 

And  Henri  then  a  madman  in  his  stare, 

Sprang  sudden  to  his  feet,  and  in  his  wrath — 

"De  Lacy  lord,  why  art  thou  in  my  path  ? 

The  years  are  fled  since  master  in  the  ring 

You  bold  were  found  the  conqueror's  glove  to  fling ; 

But  love  alone  that  checked  my  wayward  blade  ! 

'Twas  love  alone  made  glory  rise  or  fade  ! 

And  but  for  this  fair  fainting  maid  of  mine 

The  star  of  death  had  set  in  Lacy's  eyne  ! — " 

"Oh,  Henri !  Henri !  shield  me  from  his  wrath  ! — " 

"Yes,  Lady  'Milia,  yes,  my  tearful  lass  ! 

The  hour  is  gone  when  Henri  more  shall  sue 

For  quarter,  life,  that  marked  the  fleeting  view  ;— 

Thy  maid  is  come  all  frighted  as  a  bird, 

Fear,  anger,  woe  her  bosom's  sighs  have  stirred  ; 

To  her,  to  her,  my  gentle  loving  maid, 

I  soft  release  my  care,  while  yet  is  stayed 

A  madman  lover  in  my  right  of  way, 

Who'd  here  dispute  my  will  to  go  or  stay — " 

"Oh,  Henri ! — "    "Xever  fear,  the  time  is  now 

To  match  the  strength  where  mighty  warriors  bow; 

And  teach  the  night  ere  morrow's  sun  shall  rise, 

A  prowess  won  before  a  thousand  eyes  ! 

'Tis  Lacy  shines  the  king  of  Valor's  art, 

'Tis  Lacy  hurls  the  spear  or  wings  the  dart, 

'Tis  Lacy,  matchless  in  the  fields  of  fame, 

Claims  bride  by  right,  and  none  dispute  his  claim — ' 

"Come,  come  !  thou  vaunting  knave,  what  ails  thee  now  V" 

And  bending  hard  against  the  saddle  bow, 

His  anger's  whiteness  rivaled  winter's  snow, 

And  trembling  arm  as  conscious  of  a  blow, 

Now  rose,  now  fell,  but  aimless  rose  and  fell, 

As  fear  had  sounded  there  in  hollow  knell, 

As  vacillation  slow  to  name  the  act, 

Had  shown  the  strength  a  lesser  hand  had  lacked ; 

And  there  in  doubt,  in  fear  or  half  surprise, 

The  maddened  fire  quick  flashing  from  his  eyes, 

He  sat  his  horse,  while  warriors  grimly  round 

Were  awed  to  see  the  reckless  Lacy  bound, 

For  never  time  had  seen  him  quail  before, 

For  never  time  but  blood  on  blood  did  pour 

At  lesser  cause  for  passion's  angry  wprk, 

At  lesser  cause  for  spite  to  rouse  a  Turk ; 

But  now  the  Lacy  moveless  as  a  stone, 

Sat  silent  there  while  rose  the  heavy  groan ; 

But  he  that's  slow  to  wrath  were  better  far, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE.  65 

And  moveless  eye,  where  never  sound  nor  jar 
Disturbed  the  deathly  stillness,  there  was  fixed 
Upon  the  face  of  him  who  sat  transfixed; 
But  like  a  flash  the  whelming  scene  had  gone, 
The  twenty  riders  there  as  sudden  born, 
The  fainting  maid,  the  bold  attendant  there, 
The  quick  release  to  her  of  Henri's  care, 
The  angry  word,  the  sharp,  the  hot  reply, 
The  warriors  fixed  with  awed  and  staring  eye, 
And  now  the  hatred  jealous  hearts  shall  know, 
And  now  the  tear  that  madness  caused  to  flow, 
Enmarked  the  face,  the  form  of  rivaling  knights, 
Excitement's  arts  that  name  all  pending  fights. 
"There,  sir's,  your  bride  of  yester-evening  gone  !" 
Yet  echoed  thro'  his  breast  where  passions  dawn, 
And  name  the  wrath  that  knows  no  calmness  found 
Where  heart  of  calm  or  reason's  powers  have  bound ; 
And  thus  the  scene  that  flashed  athwart  the  night, 
The  twenty  riders  ready  for  the  fight, 
The  argent  moon  in  soft  and  mellow  light, 
Emilia  and  her  maid  that  paused  in  fright, 
The  twice  ten  mailmen,  nor  of  sound  nor  groan, 
A-like  equestrian  statues  of  moveless  stone, 
The  angry  Vale,  and  angrier  Lacy  lord, 
All  moveless  there  as  some  enchantress  rod 
Had  fixed  a  spell  that  bound  them  to  the  place, 
Nor  any  sign  or  living  life  to  trace, 
And  rolled  the  moon  as  silvery  rounded  shield, 
The  brook  sighed  on,  its  parting  song  did  yield, 
The  spectral  trees  waved  sadly  o'er  the  scene, 
And  there  a  hush  as  funeral's  train  is  seen. 
"Sir  Knight !"  and  anger  choked  his  trembling  voice, 
"'Tis  flight,  or  death  shall  mark  your  hurried  choice  I 
Emilia's  mine  by  right  of  name  and  fame, 
And  he  that's  bold  this  matchless  right  to  claim, 
Were  better  teaching  maidens  how  to  love, 
For  else  his  powers  are  born  of  mightier  Jove, 
A  shameless  death  shall  lay  him  where  he  strove  !" 
"But  never  Henri  feared  a  knightly  form, 
But  never  Henri  fled  before  a  storm 
Of  sky,  or  wrath,  or  hatred's  bitter  hate  ; 
And  Lacy's  fame  may  find  a  matchless  mate, 
If  such  his  wish,  his  fiery  heart's  desire  ; 
But  mine  no  heart  to  claim  a  madman's  fire, 
For  calmly  here  while  roving  thro'  the  night, 
I  found  this  sorrowing  maid  in  kenless  plight. 
And  like  a  knight  that  melts  with  Beauty's  tears, 
I  hurried  c1.:-.",  :v:  1  •  i.  In  part  her  i'ears: 

0 


66  THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

And,  Lacy,  never  felt  I  more  surprise 

When  'Milia's  self  arrayed  my  doubting  eyes, 

And  here  since  day  has  won  the  shade  of  night 

The  years  have  come,  and  passed,  and  ta'en  their  flight, 

And  listening  to  her  tale  of  mingled  woe, 

My  angry  youthhood's  tears  did  welling  flow ; 

And  song  we  sang  as  little  recked  you  here 

As  now  my  breast  contains  a  nameless  fear ; 

And  yet  no  Vale  e'er  craved  a  Beauty's  band 

That  came  of  force  at  father's  Larsh  command, 

And  if  the  maid  that  fears  her  bridegroom  now, 

Shall  tell  me  go,  the  Henri's  plume  shall  bow, 

And  Lacy,  king,  reclaim  the  bride  of  flight, 

And  morrow's  priest  once  more  their  hearts  unite  !" 

And  calmer  there  with  form  that  bowed  low, 

He  waited  Beauty's  voice  to  name  his  woe, 

While  Lacy  wroth,  with  hot  and  lowering  eye, 

Awaited  like  the  culprit  marked  to  die, 

And  mailed  horseman  more  in  wonder  lost, 

Yet  moveless  there  their  plumes  alone  that  tost, 

Did  pausing  wait  the  climax  of  the  scene, 

That  grew  apace  while  Anger  shaped  between. 

VII. 

As  soft  as  hush  that  falls  in  twilight  eve, 

The  mournful  tones  where  weepers  pause  to  grieve, 

Lady  Emilia:  "Stay,  my  Henri,  stay  ! 

The  Luna  Queen  shall  wane,  and  lightsome  day 

Reign  o'er  the  scene,  ere  I  shall  bid  away  !" 

"Sir  Knight,  thy  form  uncloaked,  no  mailed  attire, 

Were  easy  work  for  Lacy  in  his  ire  ! 

The  voice  of  caution  now  shall  bid  you  go  ! 

Away  1  away  !  ere  heart's  red  blood  shall  flow  I 

My  arm  has  won  the  peerless  Conrad  prize, 

You  kenned  the  fray,  and  paled  your  youthful  eyes ; 

The  maid  is  mine  till  fairer  wreath  be  twined ; 

'Tis  Valor's  arm  alone  the  prize  shall  find  !" 

"De  Lacy  bold,  and  matchless  in  the  land, 

'Tis  Vale  will  claim  the  Flower  of  Dardale's  hand ! 

The  Conrad  fray  in  youth  of  arms  I  saw, 

And  perfect  skill  that  knows  no  lesser  law, 

Won  mastery  there,  and  fell  the  Conrad  brave, 

And  flowers  to-night  are  blooming  o'er  his  grave  ; 

But  never  yet  were  Vales  afraid  to  die  ! 

The  feud-fires  long  had  blazed  athwart  the  sky, 

The  feudal  strife  and  Knighthood's  valorous  arms, 

Had  won  them  fame,  and  Beauty's  matchless  charms, 

But  dead  the  sires  of  valor's  noble  deeds, 


TTTF  LADY  OF  DAPDALE.  67 

Yet  living  here  a  heart  that  inly  bleeds 
To  meet  a  foe  if  such  would  ken  his  skill, 
To  meet  a  foe  if  foe  his  blood  would  spill !" 

VIII. 

Like  flash  of  light  in  tracery  o'er  the  sky, 

The  Lacy's  form  from  horse  did  darting  fly ; 

And  there  with  corslet  torn  from  reeking  breast, 

As  other  knight  in  mailless  fold  was  dressed, 

His  scabbard  gave  his  sword  to  trembling  air ; 

And  face  to  face  each  madly  then  and  there, 

The  jealous  forms  gave  parry  sharp,  and  stroke, 

No  steel-clad  form  or  warrior's  deadening  cloak 

But  prowess  lone  to  shield  the  panting  breast, 

Where  anger's  sway  in  tremors  was  confessed. 

Now  breathless  there,  the  maids  and  warriors  all, 

The  steady  ring  the  only  sound  did  fall ; 

For  never  Lacy  met  a  worthy  foe 

Since  Conrad's  rolling  form  in  death  lay  low, 

And  warriors  there  in  valor's  deeds  grown  gray, 

Were  eager  found  to  bide  the  coming  fray  ; 

For  fairness  there  no  party  hand  might  stain, 

Should  name  the  victory  when  the  foe  was  slain, 

Who  weaker  found,  less  skillful  in  his  art, 

Should  lose  the  wreath  where  Beauty's  form  did  start ; 

For  Knighthood's  chiefs  of  Lacy  held  a  dread, 

And  tho'  the  sabre-thrust  should  lay  him  dead, 

As  little  care  as  when  the  warrior  dies 

Who  owns  no  fame,  no  star  in  Victory's  skies ; 

And  thus  the  fray  should  fairly  test  the  skill 

Of  warring  knights  that  thrust  with  maddened  will, 

And  Lady,— maid,  no  hand  to  stay  the  blow, 

No  warrior's  eye  to  melt  where  blood  should  flow, 

The  fray  should  end  with  victory,  woe  or  death, 

And  never  maid  or  warrior  with  their  breath, 

Should  dim  the  glory  prowess  bravely  won, 

For  fair  should  end  as  fairly  as  begun, 

And  with  the  skill  and  fired  of  jealous  hate 

That  comes  of  love  that  rivals  for  its  mate, 

The  maddened  knights,  De  Lacy,  Henri  bold, 

As  bravely  fought  as  e'er  shall  man  behold ; 

And  thrust  and  parry,  quicker,  madder  thrust, 

They  vainly  strove  to  lay  the  other  in  the  dust, 

And  scarce  the  spell  that  names  enchantress  art, 

And  blood  was  gushing  from  the  Henri's  heart! 

No  word  to  name  the  bitter  hate  within, 

No  other  sound  but  sword-blows'  ringing  din, 

No  word  of  cheer,  arena's  loud  applause, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  steady  blow  that  fell  for  valor's  laws ; 
And  anger's  look  that  won  unswerving  place, 
Was  pictured  plainly  there  on  cither's  face, 
And  such  the  skill  the  maddened  passions  brought 
How  braver  now  has  ever  Knighthood  fought ! 


The  Lacy  matchless  with  the  sword  or  axe 
Would  ill  beseem  his  every  nerve  to  tax, 
In  lists  the  knight  that  bravest  of  the  brave 
Has  many  a  warrior  laid  within  his  grave, 
But  illy  meets  the  strokes  of  other  knight, 
But  matchless  yet  as  ever  fray  or  fight, 
'The  victory  hangs  an  ever-varying  doubt ; 
Yet  hold !  a  newer  skill  seems  flashing  out  ! 
'Tis  Lacy  now  seems  marked  for  Victor's  crown. 
But  yet  remains  that  half  unconscious  frown, 
That  stamped  the  Henri's  ever  dauntful  face, 
While  conscious  skill  its  every  line  did  trace  ; 
But  yet  the  thrust  and  faster  falling  parry 
From  Lacy's  sword-blade  death  seemed  to  carry, 
And  now  my  knights  and  maids  of  tender  heart, 
The  Henri  faints  before  the  matchless  art 
Of  him  who  victor  long  in  frays  of  Dardale, 
Has  laid  in  dust  a  braver  than  a  Vale  ! 
But  ah,  the  Henri  half  renews  his  skill ! 
The  Lacy's  blood  from  larger  wounds  does  spill, 
And  hotter  there  as  Victory  stands  apace, 
A  second  brave  Achilles  shows  his  face  ! 
"On,  on  !  my  Lacy  !  victory  hangs  the  scale  ! 
More  matchless  now  shall  prove  a  Henri  Vale  ? 
Your  guard  !  your  guard  !  my  Lacy  knight,  and  brave 
Else  morrow's  sun  shall  dust  thine  open  grave  ! 
Else  rrorrow's  sun  shall  pale  thy  wailing  bride, 
And  Beauty  weep  for  valorous  knight  that  died  !— " 

x. 

But  hark  !  the  sound  as  madly  rushing  steed 
That  from  his  rider's  grasp  is  wild  and  freed, 
Fell  sudden  there,  and  thro'  the  gray  of  morn, 
His  features  working  wild  in  passion's  storm, 
His  long  gray  hair  disheveled  on  the  wind, 
His  maddened  steed  as  Hying  there  and  blind, 
In  wilder  flight,  as  hotly  urged  by  spur, 
The  lord  Graville,  where  anger's  rage  did  still 
Came  furiously  on,  nor  stopped,  nor  gave  he  heed 
Till  checked  by  startled  knights  the  flying  steed  ! 
"And  thus  !  and  thus  !  my  henchmen  one  and  all ! 


TllE  LADY  OF DA HDA L E.  69 

A  morkory  fray  to  sound  rny 'power's  fall ! 
And  this  the  search  !  and  these  the  men  obey  ? 
And  this  my  knight  of  vast  and  mighty  sway  ?  t  • 

A  vaunt,  thou  men  of  ire  !  and  warriors  here, 
Seize,  seize  !  the  knight  that  Lacy  dares  to  peer  I— 
And  you,  my  shameless  maid  !  quick  hie  thee  hence  ! 
My  feelings  now  shall  find  no  recompense  ! 
A  wedJing  thus  to  end  in  morning's  dawn  I—- 
Enough !  the  scene  is  plain  !  and  fray  shall  on  ! 
When  night  and  morning  once  again  are  gone  !— 
Yet,  Lacy,  knight,  why  art  thou  toying  here  ? 
This  shameless  wight  were  better  name  thee  peer 
To  Hectors  once  that  swayed  the  ponderous  shield—" 
'"But  brave  Achilles  came  !  did  Hector  yield?" 
'  "On,  cowards,  on  !  and  seize  this  doughty  youth, 
So  bold  to  speak,  to  warp  the  living  truth ;" 
And  there  the  master  o'er  the  warriors  all, 
Save  only  Yale  who  knew  no  master's  call, 
He  swayed  the  knights,  and  knights  obedient  there ' 
Sprang  wildly  on  the  Yale  who  brave  did  dare ; 
But  aimless  fray  ;  the  gray  of  morning  dawned, 
A.ud  he  that  quarter,  mercy  ever  scorned,  _-, 

More  sorely  pressed  than  ever  warrior  knew,  4 

Beat  slow  retreat,  till  meteor  thro'  the  blue, 
He  sudden  vaulted  to  the  Lacy's  horse  ! 
And  giying  rein,  he  rushed  in  maddened  course, 
Bold  cleared  the  brook  that  lately  sang  of  love, 
And  left  the  moveless  warriors  where  he  strove  ! 


The  maddened  Lacy,  pale  astounded  sire  !— 
But  leapt  their  voice  in  mildness  as  of  ire— 
"The  warrior  wins  his  form  in  life  or  death, 
A  hundred  crowns  !"  and  anger  choked  the  breath. 
The  .spurs  cut  deep,  and  stallions  wild  with  speed, 
And  warriors  hotter  grown  for  rivaling  deed, 
Were- furiously  off,  and  like  the  rush  of  wind 
They  swept  from  view,  the  ireful  lords  behind ; 
And  there  alone  the  lover  and  the  lord, 
With  never  a  sound  or  solitary  word, 
In  silence  paused  till  sudden  passion  fled — 
"And  I  of  all  that  Henri  Yale  were  dead  !" 
"A  mated  wrish  could  name  my  inner  thought ! 
•But,  Lacy  mine,  tho'  bravely  here  he  fought, 
'Twere  foolish  now  to  wish  such  valor  dead, 
My  Lacy's  fame  when  blood  of  Yale  is  shed  ! 
It  warriors  win  the  form  that  stirs  to  hate, 
J)e  Lacy's  blade  shall  prove  him  less  than  mate '!" 


70  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"Thy  daughter  and  her  maid  have  fled  the  scene, 

And  gone  the  knight  that  dazzles  in  her  een, 

But  ere  you  came,  the  mastery  of  her  love 

Would  fall  to  him  who  brave,  more  bravely  strove. 

She  said.    And  if  the  Vale  shall  own  his  life, 

'Tis  I  will  meet  him  single  in  the  strife, 

And  power  alone  to  name  the  choice  of  bride  !" 

"A  valorous  vow  ;  my  wishes  ;  I  abide." 

And  calmer  found  than  since  the  morning  fray, 

They  slow  retrace  their  woody  homeward  way ; 

And  shone  the  sun  as  naught  of  bloody  deed 

Had  marked  the  night,  no  warrior's  breast  to  bleed. 

And  thus  a  shred  of  vanished  Knighthood's  art, 

That  Scottish  Bard  had  laid  upon  my  heart, 

Has  come,  has  gone,  and  going,  left  no  trace 

That  marks  the  matchless  Chief  of  Knighthood's  place  !* 

And  he  to  thank  if  thus  the  idle  tale 

Has  won  an  hour  where  graver  cares  assail ; 

'Twas  love  of  him  in  Knightly  lore  and  phrase 

That  won  my  luring  maid  to  Knighthood's  lays.f 


And  love  has  built  the  sweetest  line 
That  swayed  the  thought  like  Velez'  wine, 
As  Bard  has  told  in  ancient  lay, 
That  graces  now  in  knightly  sway, 
My  storied  shelf  where  many  a  rhyme* 
Has  stole  my  sleep  and  dimmed  my  eyrie, 
And  built  a  hope  within  my  breast, 
That  time  should  come  tho'  not  redrest, 
When  leisure  theirs  should  be  my  store, 
And  I  should  go  to  paynim  shore, 
To  clime  of  East  'neath  tropic  sun, 
Where  many  a  tale  was  once  begun, 
And  bards  of  old  in  sweetest  lay 
Gained  lore  of  love,  and  stole  away 
The  student's  time  both  night  and  day, 
And  marked  a  madness  with  their  sway. 

The  love  of  love,  the  hate  of  hate, 

Shall  ever  be  a  poet's  state, 

Yet  to  their  haunts  I  fond  would  go, 

Tho'  writhe  my  soul  in  hopeless  woe, 

For  heaven  was  theirs,  and  heaven  is  mine, 

I  find  it  traced  in  many  a  line, 

And  full  my  soul  as  thoughts  I  see 

From  Genius'  store  so  chaste  and  free. 

That  once  I  feel  the  fire  of  old, 

'* Scott,    f  The  Muse. 


THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE.  71 

I  would  not  change  for  land  of  gold, 
My  love  for  rhyme,  my  love  for  verse, 
Tho'  to  my  life  it  prove  a  curse, 
And  fill  my  nights  with  candles  dim, 
And  blur  my  eyes  with  study's  film, 
Fill  up  the  day  with  thoughts  of  eve, 
When  rhymes  and  I  would  laugh  and  grieve  I 

No  "goblet  crowned  with  mighty  wine, 
The  blood  of  Yelez'  scorched  vine," 
Shall  need  to  fire  the  lover  knight, 
If  he  shall  live  at  end  of  flight, 
'Tis  love  alone  shall  move  the  tongue, 
And  shape  the  verse  where  arms  have  rung, 
For  Love  is  young  and  never  old, 
Tho'  Scottish  Knight*  the  tale  has  told, 
How  Minstrel  bardf  in  gray  of  life, 
Found  lack  of  love  and  Cupid's  strife, 
And  fired  with  wine  alone  could  sing 
Of  other  days  where  thoughts  did  clin0'. 

Young  Love  till  now  has  swayed  the  scene, 

And  knight  and  maid  in  forest  green, 

Has  caused  to  meet  and  parted  there 

In  morning  dawn,  Aurora  fair ; 

And  so  as  King  within  the  ring 

No  knight  shall  come  the  glove  to  fling, 

For  worsted  there  in  war  of  love, 

In  war  of  life,  in  war  of  grove, 

Shall  reign  he  King,  and  king  of  love  ! 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  THE  THIRD. 

From  Grampian  Hills  that  stretch  their  way 
Thro'  Scotland's  Highlands,  Lowlands  gray, 
The  tourist's  eye  might  vainly  seek 
The  Castle  once  that  topt  the  peak, 
Might  vainly  scan  the  wide  expanse, 
And  yet  no  Lacy,— Yale  advance, 
No  Lord  Graville  who  once  in  power 
In  kingly  port  o'er-ruled  the  hour. 
And  named  Emilia's  lover,  lord, 
For  Time  has  swept  and  snapt  the  cord 
That  bound  them  sacred  to  the  earth, 
And  each  to  each ;  a  tie  that  birth 

*Scott.    jTne  Latest  Minstrel. 


72  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Had  once  cemented  firm  as  love, 
That  crowns  the  youth  who  vainly  strove 
To  wrest  himself  from  tangled  braid, 
The  powers  that  arm  the  love-eyed  maid ! 
The  Cheviot  Hills  might  meet  his  eye, 
Ben  Nevis  kissed  by  blue  of  sky, 
And  Aven,  Cruachan  towering  high, 
The  Hills  of  Lammermoor,  the  lakes 

In  sheeted  glory,  Ness  and  Tay  ; 
The  lochs  where  many  a  deer-hound  slakes 

His  thirst  as  on  that  farther  day 
"When  Caledonian  Hunts  were  fain 
To  win  the  lord,  the  chief,  till  slain 
The  deer,  and  pleasure  turned  to  pain. 
The  Tay,  the  Clyde,  the  Tweed  might  flow, 
And  bear  no  burden  of  the  woe, 
That  shaped  in  eve  and  morning's  dawn, 
The  knights  that  cried,  "On,  Lacy,  on  !" 
Nor  Esk,  nor  Dee,  tho'  once  the  wave 
Their  skiff,  their  boat,  did  softly  lave, 
Had  naught  of  tale,  of  vanished  scene, 
The  things  that  were,  that  reigned,  had  been, 
For  gone,  forever  gone  ;  and  bard 
Alone,  the  skies  once  golden  starred 
To  sweet  reclaim  from  hallowed  past, 
From  hoary  Time  that  kenned  the  last 
Of  living  maid,  enchanting  once, 
Now  silent,  tombed,  no  sweet  response, 
No  luring  eye  to  steal  the  heart 
Of  Lacys,  Vales  ;  the  magic  art 
That  maids  of  all  have  owned  since  Time 
First  placed  them  in  his  jarring  rhyme, 
As  soulless  once  as  Staffa'sisle, 

An  empty  dark  like  Fingal's  Cave, 

For  Time  has  laid  her  in  her  grave, 
That  dirt,  and  damp,  and  worms  defile ; 
That  dirt,  and  damp,  the  forms  revile 
Of  Beauties  once  the  Queens  of  May, 
The  diadems  that  lost  their  way, 
And  found  a  place  'mid  lesser  stones, 
That  saw  the  maddened  flight  of  roans, 
The  sweep  of  hot  and  wild  pursuit, 
The  gray-haired  sire  in  anger  mute, 
The  thousand  shreds  that  make  the  skein 
Of  woven  life,  where  phases  reign 
Of  good  and  bad,  and  bad  and  good, 
The  scenes  of  joy,  and  woe,  and  blood, 
The  various  hues  that  light  and  shade 


THE  LADY  OF  DAE  DALE.  73 

Have  ever  darkly,  brightly  made, 
Have  painted  like  the  rainbow's  arch, 
Thr:i  dark  as  when  the  hosts  shall  march 
'Gainst  host,  and  host  shall  deep  the  red 
Of  earth,  where  mangled  lay  the  dead. 
Bel iol,  Bruce,  forever  gone, 
The  Marys,  kings  and  queens  of  dawn, 
The  Scottish  frays  on  cliff  and  hill, 
The  blood  that  roiled  the  laughing  rill, 
The  kingdoms'  strife  for  seventy  years, 
The  bane  of  peace,  the  nurse  of  tears, 
All,  all  are  gone,  and  workadays 
To  jar  where  poets  chime  their  lays, 
Where  bards  are  wrapt  in  misty  hues 
That  clothe  the  past  in  lovely  blues, 
That  tinted  rainbow  vain  beshrews, 
Where  reign  to  him  the  myriad  scenes, 
Where  sacred  past  in  fitful  gleams 
Enchains  him  as  the  toils  of  maids 
That  champion  Eros  on  his  raids, 
And  sings  he  songs,  the  Song  of  songs, 
Where  holiest  peace,  the  plain  belongs 
Elysian,  soft  as  dew  of  eve, 
And  thousand  beauties  gaily  weave 
A  net- work,  wrapping  round  and  round, 
Till  there  Prometheus  helpless  bound, 
And  yet  tho'  gone,  forever  gone, 
Enchanting  past  is  loveliest  born, 
The  rugged  wood  in  gray  of  morn, 
The  wide  expanse  of  field,  of  sky, 
The  hill,  the  mount,  the  castle  by, 
The  twenty  horse  and  mailmen  wroth, 
The  twenty  horse  that  madly  forth 
Are  rushing.    Trees,  the  brook  are  past; 
The  hoofs  are  loud  upon  the  blast : — 
The  scene  is  gone,  and  dappled  blue 
Is  all  the  tourist's  eye  shall  view, 
With  rugged  hills,  and  ribbed  mounts, 
Yet  soulless  now  as  stealing  founts, 
That  once  in  chime  of  song  and  bird 
Went  sparkling  on,  in  melody  heard, 
Emila,  Yale,  De  Lacy  now  ! — 
But  ah,  Emilia  love  to  bow  ; 
Emilia  love  had  proved  of  life, 
And  castle,  dale,  a  scene  of  strife. 
She  "wanders  thro'  the  castle  wide, 
And  ill  and  doubt  did  there  betide 
A  bitter  day,  the  mournful  scenes 


74  TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

That  love  brought  there  in  woeful  miens. 
A  song  is  floating  o'er  the  moat, 
And  Eveleen  shall  ring  the  note, 
A  ditty  wight  of  love  had  framed, 
A  ditty  listening  ear  had  claimed. 
"And  is  it  Yale  ?  "  the  question  shaped, 
A  Hydra  doubt  was  there  and  gaped. 
A  dream,  and  soft  her  marble  brow 
In  slumber  strove.    'Tis  over  now  ! 
The  scene  is  wild,  and  palely  there 
Emilia,  fairest  of  the  fair, 
In  pallor  wrapt  has  fainted  !    Still 
In.wonder  bound,  the  Lord  Graville  ; 
The  Lacy.    Yet  the  volumed  Tweed, 
In  mirrored  flow  the  mind  might  lead 
To  calmer  theme,  and  calmness  there 
Has  won  its  sway,  and  everywhere 
The  scattered  beauties  thro'  the  air, 
Have  lessed  the  woe,  the  dread,  the  care  ; 
And  Tourney  now  the  theme  of  thought, 
And  who  the  victor  there  that  fought ! 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pas* 

With  varying  shadow,  o'er  the  grat>6, 

And  imitate,  on  field  and  furrow, 

Life's  chequer'd  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow; 

Like  streamlet  of  the  mountain  north, 

Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth, 

Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train, 

And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain ; 

Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 

Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away, 

And  ever  swells  again  as  fast, 

When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past; 

Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 

Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 

Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 

Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race; 

Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar, 

Weaving  its  maze  irregular ; 

And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 

Heaves  its  wild  sigh  through  Autumn  trees ; 

Then,  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  galo, 

Flow  on,  flow  uncoufined,  rny  Tale ! 

Thy  friendship  thus  thy  judgment  wronging, 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meek  for  mightiest  powers, 
Wouldst  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say,  my  Erskine.hast  thou  weigh'd 
That  secret  power  by  all  obey'd, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind, 
Its  source  conceal'd  or  undefined  ; 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Whether  an  Impulse,  that  has  hirth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wanes  on  earth, 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers, 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours ; 
Or  whether  fltlier  turn'd  the  sway 
Of  habit  forrn'd  in  early  day? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confest 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain, 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 

— Marmion. 


That  bitter  night  had  gone  before, 
No  glaring  sun  the  deeds  did  pour, 
But  brightly  shone,  as  never  stain 
Had  darkly  flecked  its  potent  reign, 
As  never  deed  that  fouled  a  night 
Had  come  and  gone  in  shade  and  light ; 
But  sweet  Emilia's  throbbing  heart, 
Tho'  Sol  was  gay  in  magic  art, 
Told  well  the  dread  that  there  did  rei^n, 
And  sorrow's  woe  with  sorrow's  train, 
Nor  sun  nor  morn  to  brighten  there, 
But  only  love  in  blank  despair, 
His  reign  complete  lent  misery's  hue, 
And  lost  her  eye  its  flashing  blue, 
And  language  once  so  sweet  to  flow, 
In  varied  phrase  to  come,  to  go, 
Had  fled  the  heart  where  love  did  flout 
A  torch  of  hope  that  soon  went  out, 
And  left  a  picture  of  a  corse 
That  tumbled  lay,—  a  flying  horse, 
Which  lone  and  riderless,  no  rein, 
As  madly  dashed  the  steppe,  the  plain, 
As  ukrane  steed  that  bards  did  write, 
But  freer  yet,  untamed  flight, 
No  struggling  form  to  stay  the  steed, 
No  crying  soul,  no  limbs  that  bleed. 
"On,  on  !  the  stallion  madly  flies  I 
His  tawny  side  the  star-spur  dyes  ! 
The  brook  is  leapt,  the  crowd  is  gone  ! 
On,  on  !  my  stallion  !  madly  on  ! 
My  foes  are  brave  with  ten  to  one ; 
By  single  hands  their  deeds  were  done, 
'Twere  Henri'd  meet  them  one  and  all, 
'Twere  Henri'd  rise  or  shameless  fall ; 
But  speed,  my  steed,  the  hour  is  nigh 
When  Henri  or  a  Lacy'll  die  ; 
But  tested  skill  shall  name  the  foe 
That  best  deserves  a  hero's  woe, 


76  THE  LADY  OF  DA  EDA  LE. 

Who  fighting  brave  for  love  and  fame, 
Shall  twine  a  laurel  round  his  name. 
A  never  madder  steed  than  thee, 
A  never  stronger  fought  for  liberty, 
A  Lacy's  power  has  held  thee  long, 
And  Henri  Yale's  an  arm  less  strong ! 
On,  011 !  the  sparkling  morn  is  shed 
In  thousand  beauties  o'er  our  head, 
And  flying  here  to  life  or  death, 
For  anger's  power  has  thicked  thy  breath, 
I  drink  the  feast  that  heavenly  swells 
Upon  the  gale,  no  death-toned  knells, 
And  feel  no  care  for  aught  of  earth, 
Save  Dardale  maid  who  won  her  birth 
In  fairer  climes  than  knighthood  knows, 
Than  Eden  flower  that  blooms  and  blows, 
And  but  for  her  so  matchless  found, 
My  steed  nor  I  would  wildly  bound ; 
But  Lacy  face  to  face  in  wrath, 
Where  tryst-nook  ends  the  rugged  path, 
I'd  sue  not  vainly  for  the  right 
To  name  him  hero  in  the  fight. 

II. 

'•But  fly,  my  steed,  the  morn  is  spread 
In  loveliest  hues  o'er  Nature's  bed, 
And  taintless  air  from  heaven's  fane 
Gives  life  and  love  in  silent  reign  ! 
O  what  a  surging  force  must  name 
The  warrior's  sweep  to  death  or  fame, 
As  loudly  roars  the  battle's  din, 
And  fled  and  fleeing  cross  the  linn  ! 
Oh  Lacy,  never  madder  heart 
Throbbed  o'er  a  fray  where  valor's  art 
Has  twined  the  wreath  in  beauty's  hues 
'Xeath  dappled  skies  in  vying  blues  ! 
Oh  love  and  war,  and  war  and  love, 
Are  all  the  things  where  man  has  strove, 
And  shown  the  greatness,  often  found 
"Where  love  and  war  are  rivaling  bound. 
A  hero  many  a  war  has  won 
In  glory  sparkling  as  the  sun; 
And  many  a  bard  has  won  from  war     . 
A  master's  sway  o'er  poesy's  law; 
And  war  were  gone,  and  love  were  not, 
How  aimless  has  the  poet  wrought ! 
The  stirring  fray  has  raised  the  soul 
To  higher  numbers,  and  the  goal 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE.  77 

Where  reign  the  heroes  named  of  old, 
And  bard  and  chief  each  other  fold. 
An  aimless  life  shall  know  no  power 
Of  him  wh*o  seeks  in  every  hour 
The  towering  heights  that  kiss  t'.ie  blue, 
And  give  the  soul  a  loftier  view. 
A  Genius  which  is  never  sought 
Is  never  found.    The  years  have  taught 
That  he  who  struggles  for  a  name 
Is  oft  surprised  to  own  the  claim  ; 
A  thousand  powers  that  kenless  lay, 
Shall  spring  to  life  and  own  a  sway, 
And  pleasing  reign  as  sunlight  ray. 


"Away,  away!  my  foaming  steed, 
A  reckless  brave  that  dares  this  deed  ! 
But  time  and  tide  are  flying  fast, 
And  hoofs  are  sounding  in  the  blast ! 
The  heated  knights  in  maddened  chase 
Are  wildly  rushing  as  a  race 
For  life  or  death  lent  fire  and  speed 
To  maddened  stallion,  flying  steed, 
But  knight  nor  stallion,  angered  sire, 
Can  match  my  steed  in  tameless  ire  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !    Away( !  away  ! 
No  fairer  race  to  mark  the  day, 
No  Lacy  here  of  braver  deed, 
His  stallion  bold  in  matchless  speed, 
A  Henri  Vale  more  madly  sped, 
Till  horse  and  rider  both  be  dead  ! 
I  live  to  breathe  above  thy  grave 
Where  weeping  willow  soft  shall  wave  ; 
For  Lacy  mine,  my  flight  is  bold, 
The  warriors  all  are  tumbling,  rolled, 
Ere  steed  of  mine,  or  hand,  or  arm, 
Shall  pause  to  faint  in  mad  alarm. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  my  flying  band  ! 
And  never  rider  in  the  land 
Were  safer  sped  than  Henri  Yale, 
Who  loves  alone  the  Maid  of  Dardale  ! 
The  angry  sire  may  man  his  band, 
The  haughty  lord  may  give  command, 
But  Love  was  ever  victor  found, 
Tho'  locks  and  keys  did  there  abound ; 
And  thus  my  braves  now  flying  fast, 
'Tis  Love  the  victor  cuts  the  blast !— " 


78  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

IV. 

"Oh !"— Waking  there  from  day-dream  trance, 

With  fear  and  horror  in  her  glance, 

She  started  from  her  cushioned  seat, 

While  anxious  fear  soft  flushed  her  cheek ; 

But  sinking  there  in  mingled  dread, — 

"Ah  me,  ah  me,  that  I  were  dead, 

And  love  so  weak  had  never  wed 

To  love  of  him  where  life  is  fled." 

"My  Lady,  what  has  crossed  thy  mind  ?" 

"A  sadder  woe  than  most  shall  find  ! 

So  grossed  was  I  with  night  of  sorrow, 

That  day-trance  here  did  sadly  borrow 

My  Henri's  flight,  the  maddened  chase, 

The  rivaling  knights  so  mad  to  race. 

I  gave  him  spurs  when  none  were  there, 

I  pictured  wrongly  in  despair, 

My  fancy  won  a  thousand  things, 

E'en  now,  e'en  now,  the  loud  hoof  rings, 

The  wild  halloo,  the  clattering  mail, 

The  din,  the  noise,  my  ears  assail, 

All,  all  the  scene,  till  wrathful  steed, 

And  tumbling  fell ;  his  side  did  bleed, 

My  Henri's  soul  from  earth  was  freed, 

And  I  in  dreamy  reck  did  see 

The  riderlqss  steed  in  maddened  beauty 

Dash,  dash  away,  and  leave  behind 

The  corse,  the  foes  !    Oh,  bitter  mind—" 

"But  see,  my  lady  !  o'er  the  moor 

The  warrior  band  as  madly  pour 

As  at  the  trysting  place  we  saw — ' 

"Yes,  yes,  a  flight  that  knew  no  law. 

And  there,  and  there,  De  Lacy's  steed ! 

An  empty  saddle  !    Death  has  freed 

His  foaming  back  of  bleeding  knight ;" 

And  there  thro'  morning's  dawning  light 

Emilia  and  her  anxious  maid, 

Behold  a  steed  that's  madly  stayed 

By  stronger  hands,  and  in  pursuit 

A  flying  band  that  ride,  are  mute, 

Till  maddened  horse  is  checked  in  court, 

Then  wildly  rings  the  harsh  report : 

"Sir  Henri's  dead  ! — was  madly  thrown 

By  Lacy's  strong  and  tameless  roan  !" 

A  shriek,  a  cry,  a  fainting  form, 

And  prostrate  on  the  floor, 

Where  Sol  his  rays  did  pour, 
She  fell !    The  steeds  came  rushing  on ; 


THE  LADY  OF  DAE  DALE.  79 

The  'hue,  the  cry,  the  mad  retort, 
The  answer  bold,  the  question  short ; 
Excitement's  reign  was  over  all, 
But  wonder  every  mind  did  thrall : 
The  mangled  Vale  nor  heard  nor  seen, 
But  death  had  settled  in  his  een, 
And  yet,  and  yet,  no  knight  could  say, 
Or  name  his  form  in  death  did  lay, 
Excitement  there  was  bold  to  name 
That  death  had  sued,  and  not  in  vain. 
A  search  was  made  ;  no  mangled  knight 
In  pool  of  blood  did  shock  the  sight ; 
And  there  by  bridge  and  court-yard  wall, 
The  sluggish  moat,  the  warriors  all 
Did  waiting  pause  to  learn  the  fate 
Of  him  the  roan  so  boldly  sate  ; 
But  never  a  sigh  or  movement  there 
Had  aught  of  fate  of  him  who'd  dare 
The  very  death  for  Dardale's  fair. 

v. 

"The  knight?  is  dead,  I'll  wager  all, 
For  I  myself  did  see  him  fall, 
Tho'  when  we  neared  the  tragic  scene, 
No  knight  was  there  in  deathly  mien ;" 
And  boldly  gazed  a  mailed  knight, 
But  swaying  plumes  that  met  his  sight 
Were  "none  of  tale  do  we  believe  ! 
'Twas  flying  speed  that  did  deceive, 
And  Maid  of  Dardale  here  may  grieve ;" 
And  thus  the  guess  that  ever  reigns 
Where  doubt  is  chief  renewed  its  claims, 
And  question  passed,  and  hot  reply, 
A  doubting  and  a  fiery  eye, 
Until  commotion  reigned  the  scene, 

And  marring  eyes  gave  look  for  look, 

And  mailed  forms  in  anger  shook ; 
But  knight  of  wrath  or  wrathful  mien, 
Xo  chance  to  claim  the  sacred  right 

That  truth  had  marked  his  words  alone, 
For  Lord  Graville  and  Lacy  knight 

Slow  crossed  the  yard  and  claimed  their  own 
The  right  to  say  what  hap  befell 

The  flying  Vale  from  steppe  to  steppe. 
"The  warrior  gods  may  hear  his  knell, 

For  death  has  long  his  vigil  kept, 
And  won  at  last  the  shameless  wight, 
Nor  king  nor  queen  had  dubbed  a  knight !" 


80  THE  LADY  OF  DAbiDALE. 

And- haughty  Lacy  heartless  there,     • 
Strode  back  and  forth  as  tameless  power 

Enborn  of  wrath  and  love's  despair, 
Had  fallen  there  in  tragic  hour. 


"A  search,  a  search  !''  said  Lord  G-ravilie, 

And  master  there  he  hath  his  will, 

And  fast  away  the  warriors  speed, 

As  racing  there  for  kingdom's  meed, 

Nor  any  word  a  search  was  made, 

Nor  any  word  the  part  they  played. 

"Lacy,  it  ill  bespeaks  my  love 

For  you  than  Vale  to  let  her  rove 

Who  late  has  caused  this  night  of  woe, 

And  thus  to  keep  the  maid  shall  go 

Till  Vale  be  dead  or  blood  shall  now  !" 

"'T\tere  safe,  my  lord,  to  reck  his  death — " 

"Such  thoughts  are  best  beneath  the  breath, 

For  once  Emilia  feels  him  dead, 

Her  life  were  gone  like  stallions  fled. 

While  life  shall  reign  her  hope  is  sweet 

That  once  again  the  knight  may  greet 

As  on  last  e'en  we  found  her  there 

Where  love  was  turned  to  blank  despair. 

If  Vale  shall  live  and  face  you  here, 

'Tis  I  myself  will  rise  and  cheer  ! 

If  Lacy  win,  the  maid,  I  ween, 

Shall  reign  his  life  and  be  his  queen, 

And  Vale  no  more  shall  stir  her  sigh, 

Or  anger  flash  in  Lacy's  eye, 

For  wedded  bliss  and  wedded  life, 

Shall  end  fore'er  the  rivaling  strife." 

"'Tis  done  !  'tis  done  !  If  Vale  return, 

In  vain  for  blood  he  need  not  yearn, 

'Tis  Lacy'll  stand  on  Tourney  sward, 

With  axe,  or  sword,  or  javelin  rod, 

In  mail,  or  mailless,  foot  or  horse, 

As  he  shall  name  beneath  the  cross  ; 

The  breathless  crowd  from  tower  and  keep, 

And  parapet,  where  love  might  leap, 

Or  moated  castle's  highest  wall, 

Shall  ken  the  knight  to  rise  or  fall, 

And  Queen  of  Beauty,  'Milia  maid, 

Shall  mark  my  glory  shine  or  fade  ! 

If  Lacy  fall,  her  Henri  Vale 

Shall  name  her  his  and  none  assail ; 

Should  Lacy  win  with  Henri  dead, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE.  81 

The  maid  of  Dardale's  life  is  wed 
To  him  who  met  the  Conrad  brave, 
And  laid  him  low  in  willowed  grave." 

VII. 

The  warriors  and  the  knights  return, 
But  none  of  tidings  did  they  learn. 
The  plain  was  scoured,  the  wood,  the  hill, 
The  route  retraced  to  trysting  rill ; 
A  scene  of  strife  had  marked  the  place 
Where  last  of  living  Vale  could  trace, 
But  naught  of  him  or  reddest  blood, 
No  marks  of  him  across  the  wood, 
And  doubt  and  guess  were  answer  all 
The  lord  and  lover  there  could  call, 
And  half  in  doubt  and  wonder  lost, 
The  moated  bridge  they  slowly  crossed, 
And  entered  then  the  arched  door 

That  gave  them  entrance  to  the  hall 

Where  fainting  beauty  there  did  fall, 

But  yet  recovered  from  her  thrall, 
Had  wandered  out  upon  the  moor, 
As  Hitting  ghost  in  draperied  garb,  .    , 

'Neath  Phoebus'  morning  glory, 
As  there  she'd  own  the  knight  ill-starred, 

And  claim  his  fate,  his  story  ; 
But  soon  returned  from  aimless  quest, 
Her  every  motion  then  confessed 
The  hopeless  feeling  reigning  there, 
The  drooping  eye,  the  half  despair, 
And  sadder  seen  in  wedding  tire. 

VIII. 

"Oh,  Lacy  ! — father !  heartless  now  ! 

And  woe  like  mine  no  softness  won  ? — 
No  pity  does  your  breast  allow  ? — 

No  sorrow  for  the  deed  that's  done  ?" 
And  pausing  there  in  half  rebuke, 

She  turned  her  glance  from  sire  to  knight, 
But  either  there  was  silent,  mute, 

Nor  any  word  that  could  requite. 
"Emilia,  much  as  I  abhor 
Thy  treatment  strange  of  honored  law, 
Thy  hasty  flight  from  wedding  scene, 
Thy  love  for  him  of  cowardly  mien, 
Thy  coldness  once  to  Conrad  chief, 
Thy  shame,  the  search,  thy  deep-felt  grief, 
All,  all  since  wedding  hour  was  named  ;— 

7 


TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  yet  my  'Milia's  hand  be  claimed 
By  him  who's  chief,  has  living  reigned 
Above  my  Lacy, — matchless  stands, 
His  name  a  by-word  in  the  lands!" 
"But,  ah,  too  late!  the  knight  is  dead, 
And  life  and  death  are  silent  wed!" 
"Emilia,  ever  love  that  lost 
A  lingering  hope  tho'  stallion  tost 
The  loved  form,  and  death  seemed  near, 
While  weeping  beauty  claimed  the  tear?' 
"Oh,  Lacy,  stronger  love  than  mine 
To  hope  where  death  the  only  sign — ' 
"The  matter  rests.    The  day  shall  know 
If  false  or  true  my  'Milia's  woe  ; 
And  if  a  promise  here  shall  name 
My  will  the  law  the  chieftains  claim, 
Then  donjon-keep  nor  prison  cell 
Shall' hold  my  maid  till  all  be  well." 
"So  long  as  promise  is  the  same, 
Emilia  has  no  further  claim." 


-The  morning  waned,  and  higher  rose  the  sun, 

But  gave  nor  sign  nor  reck  that  deeds  were  done 

That  vaster  powers  than  mine  might  soothely  claim, 

A  Genius  that  o'er  Knighthood's  Harp  did  reign, 

A  gorgeous  Chief  of  Valor's  noblest  deed, 

Whose  magic  power  the  knightly  history  freed, 

Whose  magic  painted  Knighthood's  living  past, 

A  master  where  the  knights  of  poesy  last, 

And  scenes  as  yet  to  living  worlds  unknown, 

Were  drawn  in  splendid  'ray  and  Beauty's  own, 

And  haunts  the  eye  had  seldom,  never  seen, 

Were  brought  to  light,  and  knights  of  golden  sheen, 

And  minstrel  bards  that  sang  the  border  raid, 

The  mailed  chiefs  that  warriors  never  stayed, 

The  Marmions,  knights,  and  Knighthood's  bravest  brave, 

Were  won  to  life  from  Valor's  mouldering  grave. 

Old  Scotland's  warriors  once  again  were  mailed. 

The  Stanleys,  chargers  once  again  assailed, 

The  border-cry,  the  wild,  the  loud  halloo, 

Was  heard  again,  the  warriors  rushing  through 

The  broken  ranks  of  valor's  deathless  band. 

"On,  Stanley!  on!"  and  Marmions  gave  command ; 

"The  foe!  the  foe!—"  and  battle  rages  on ; 

"Charge!  charge! — "  the  reeking  sword  is  madly  drawn 

"To  victory!  victory!"  loudly  rings  along. 

The  charge,— the  crash,— the  mad  commingled  throng ; 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE.  83 

The  whirring  dart,—  the  charger  wild  in  flight, 

The  closing  ranks, — the  dead, — the  dying  knight, 

The  deafening  din, — the  clash  of  steel  with  steel, 

The  battle-axe  in  loud  and  dissonant  peal, 

The  chieftain's  shout, — the  sweep  of  horse  and  man, 

The  rushing  knight,— the  steed  that  wildly  ran 

In  maddest  flight,  as  pealed  the  heavy  roar, 

Nor  man,  nor  chief  base  quarter  did  implore. 

Such  master  skill  that  time  and  tide  are  not, 

The  tranced  reader  stands  upon  the  spot, 

The  warriors  marching  bravely  to  the  fray, 

The  level  land,  the  glowing  god  of  day, 

The  seldom  tree,  the  distant  looming  hill, 

The  softened  murmur  of  the  mountain  rill, 

The  Scottish  scene  with  linn  and  castled  steep, 

Where  Beauty  o'er  a  chieftain's  grave  does  weep, 

For  here  "none  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair," 

Claimed  more  of  truth  than  marks  the  modern  pair, 

And  maid  and  matron  bravery  gave  the  brave, 

And  proudly  bowed  above  the  hero's  grave. 

All,  all  the  scene  so  vivid  to  the  eye, 

That  maids  are  weeping  when  the  knight  shall  die  ; 

We  join  the  ranks,  and  charge  in  heavy  mail, 

We  seize  the  axe,  the  spear,  and  there  assail 

The  mighty  host  that  march  a  pace  by  pace, 

The  plaited  visor  drawn  above  the  face  ; 

We  meet  them  there,  and  loud  the  spear-shock  rings, 

A  flying  steed,— a  chief  that  madly  clings, 

The  falling  warriors,  death,  the  disarray, 

The  sweeping  axe  no  heavy  shield  can  stay, 

The  falchion,  spear,  the  broken  helm  or  shield, 

The  warriors  brave,  till  death  shall  never  yield, 

The  wild  commotion,  mingled  cry  and  sound, 

The  fury,  flight,  and  stroke,  and  death,— the  ground 

Where  blood  has  dyed  the  bended,  broken  grass, 

All,  all ! — The  scene  is  gone. — It  came, — did  pass, 

And  force  of  thought  to  paint  it  all  a  dream, 

And  gone,  and  passed,  a  wildly  rushing  stream  ! 

x. 

Oh  what  to  love  is  worse  than  doubt, 
While  Cupid  there  with  mime  and  shout, 
Lends  hope,  and  dread,  and  mingled  woe, 
The  vying  shades  that  come  and  go, 
And  when  the  heart  sinks  in  despair, 

Paints  glowing  beauties  to  the  mind, 
And  star-gems  floating  thro'  the  air, 

Are  flitting  in  the  zephyry  wind, 


84  THE  LAD  T  OF  DARDALE. 

And  when  the  heart  has  won  a  hope, 

Then  thro'  the  darkness  seems  to  grope, 

For  love  is  various  as  the  bow 

That  arches  o'er  the  world  below, 

As  many  tints  are  vying  found, 

As  many  hues  on  hues  abound, 

But  bag  of  gold  the  love  of  most 

That  time  has  made  the  rainbow's  boast. 

It  tempts  a-like  the  will-o'-the-wisp, 

In  cooing  tone  does  softly  lisp, 

But  when  the  bow  is  traced  to  end, 

The  earth  and  sky  as  faintly  blend. 

And  thus  Emilia  hopeless  found, 

Yet  hope  was  there  soft  flitting  round, 

Was  light  and  shade,  and  joy  and  woe, 

The  hoping  eye,  the  tears  that  flow, 

The  varied  shades  that  mark  the  love 

Where  heart  with  heart  has  won  that  strove, 

And  love  the  victor  names  them  one, 

For  once  'tis  love,  'tis  once  begun, 

Nor  art  nor  power  shall  stay  the  god 

That  names  the  knight  her  chosen  lord. 

XI. 

As  dreamland's  maid  that  recks  no  trace 
Of  busy  woe  that  marks  her  face, 
She  aimless  sat,  and  while  her  maid 
Stood  stolid,  calm,  yet  half  afraid, 
Her  wondering  mind  in  light  and  shade, 
Drew  memory's  reign,  and  sadly  strayed 
Her  bitter  thought.     "The  years  are  fled 
Since  Conrad  brave  was  lying  dead. 
A  maiden  young  I  recked  no  clue 
Why  chiefest  reigned  the  Conrad  true  ; 
But  time  and  tide  went  hand  in  hand, 
And  rose  he  mightiest  in  the  land, 
While  I,  the  maid  that  struck  his  heart, 
Was  boldly  sought,  for  feudal  art 
Made  love  of  youth,  or  love  of  maid, 
A  bartered  boon  that  might  not  fade, 
So  long  as  claimant  held  his  claim 
Of  fearless  chief  and  knight  of  fame, 
And  owned  o'er  all  a  matchless  name. 
A  promised  bride  ere-known  the  meaning, 
And  eyes  of  love  and  hate  were  gleaming  : 
De  Lacy  bold  the  Conrad  hated, 
But  arms  no  prowess  ever  mated ; 
So  hate  might  heave  his  breast,  and  sighing 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  85 

Of  no  avail,  for  there  denying 

The  right  to  claim  the  maiden  weeping, 

Stood  Conrad  brave  ;  but  hate  was  sleeping 

In  Lacy's  breast,  and  jealousy  swaying, 

He  practiced  night  and  day,  displaying 

A  growing  skill.    With  hand  untiring 

He  met  the  knight,  the  chief  ;  aspiring, 

He  met  the  bold,  the  brave,  the  laureled ; 

With  each  and  all  he  boldly  quarreled, 

Till  name:and  fame  were  owned  of  him, 

And  passed  the  tale  that  howe'er  grim, 

Or  bold,  or  brave,  he'd  face  them  all, 

With  sword,  or  axe,  or  spear. — They  fall ! 
They  bleed,  they  die  !— and  now  the  Conrad  brave— 
'A  matchless  skill  a  matchless  skill  shall  crave  ! ' 
And  Lacy's  voice  rang  boldly,  bravely  there— 
'The  Conrad  teach  it  were  a  mad  despair  !' 
The  day  is  set.    The  glowing  morn  is  shed 
In  loveliest  hues  o'er  joy  and  joy  that  wed, 
Glad  all  the  scene,  and  paint  a  picture  there 
Where  castle,  tree,  and  mount,  are  glowing  fair, 
And  Nature's  beauty  softly  there  does  vie 
With  loveliest  hues  that  flit  the  mellow  sky. 
Unnatural  scene  for  blood  that  love  should  shed ; 
Unnatural  there  that  hate  to  hate  should  wed ; 
Unnatural  all ;  but  many  a  lovely  scene 

Has  closed  in  woe,  in  hate,  in  shedded  blood, 
And  gloomed  a  wold  where  love  to  love,  I  ween, 

Might  sweetly  mate  as  gradual  stealing  bud. 
The  crowd  was  there  ;  the  knights,  the  courtiers,— all ; 
'Twas  Lacy  knight  or  Conrad  there  should  fall. 
The  various  arms  that  live  in  Knighthood's  train 
Were  tested  there.    'On,  on!'  the  knights  exclaim ; 
'On,  on  !  my  Conrad  !  on  !  My  Lacy  knight ! 
Who'd  win  a  love  must  prove  his  skill  in  fight ! — 
Oh  !  master  stroke  !    My  Lacy  bites  the  dust ! 
Up,  up  !  my  Lacy  !— parry  quick !— the  thrust  !— 
Now  Conrad  brave,  a  madman's  in  thy  path ! 
A  lover's  rage,— a  still  unconquered  wrath ! ' 
The  music  rolls ;  the  crowd  are  deathly  still, — 
'Tis  Conrad's  blood  the  Lacy's  blade  shall  spill. 
The  crowd  is  gone.    The  banners  waving  there 
No  more  from  parapet  shall  flaunt  the  air. 
'Tis  Lacy  now  the  chiefest  knight  of  all, — 
The  Conrad  dead,  does  Lacy  live  to  fall  ? 
His  laureled  name  is  sounded  far  and  near, 
He  claims  my  hand,  and  stands  without  a  peer. 
The  days  are  gone,  and  months  are  fleeting  fast, 


86  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Another  knight  the  lot,  the  die  has  cast, 

'Tis  Lacy  yet,  but  bold  and  dauntless  Vale  ; 

'Tis  love  and  anger  madly  there  assail. 

The  fray  is  stopped,  and  haughty,  angered  sire 

Has  dashed  the  scene  in  madly  growing  ire  ; 

The  fleeing  stallion,  wildly  riding  knight, 

The  breathless  horde  that  man  the  shameless  flight ; — 

The  knights  are  gone,  and  'Rora's  silent  dawn 

No  reck  that  knights,  and  chief  have  flying  gone, 

No  reck  that  Knight  were  living 'now  or  dead, 

'Twere  death  to  eye  the  flight  he  madly  sped. 

'Tis  done! — A  love, — a  hate, — a  test, — a  fray, — 

And  blood,  and  flight,  and  chase,  and  search,  and  day ;. 

A  doubt,— a  fear, —  a  dread, — a  hope, — a  guess, — 

A  promise  given,— a  promise  ta'en.    A  breath ! 

The  test  to  come,  the  fray  to  be, — life  ? — death  ? — 

De  Lacy? — Vale  ? — O  maddening,  maddening  doubt! 

My  brain  is  numb.    No  Henri's  plume  shall  flout ! — ' 

A  step! — "Emilia,  mine  no  easy  mind 

Till  hasting  here  your  sweetest  self  I  find," 

And  gaudy  Lacy  'rayed  in  courtliest  tire, 

With  dress-sword,  rings,  and  love's  rekindled  fire, 

In  braided  cloak,  and  mien  of  ballroom  wight, 

!Stood  there  before  the  maid,  his  anger's  might 

A  thing  of  memory  pictured  in  the  brain, 

Where  love,  and  woe,  and  dread,  might  rivaling  reign. 

"De  Lacy,  why  this  meeting  ?— Why  art  come  ?— 

And  I  no  peace  in  native  castle  home  ? — 

And  love  a  name  to  sink  a  soul  in  woe, 

And  cause  the  bitter  tear  of  love  to  flow  ? 

The  Conrad  brave  you  laid  in  bloody  dust,— 

I  never  loved. — No  woe  was  born  of  thrust 

That  drew  his  life-blood.    Yet  rny  heart  was  young^ 

A  parent's  love  the  only  love  that  clung. 

Sir  Henri  came  and  moved  my  heart  to  love, — 

And— disappeared  ;  'twere  useless  here  he  strove. 

Among  the  dead,  forever,  ever  gone ! — 

I  gave  consent.    The  weddhig  hour  came  on, 

And  wildly  then,  no  love,  no  reck,  no  hope, 

I  thoughtless  fled, — in  twilight  air  did  grope.  . 

A  mad  pursuit,— a  fray,— a  bolder  flight,— 

And  hopeless  here,  no  dead,  no  living  knight!" 

And  worked  her  features  fair,  as  love  and  doubt 

Across  her  face  were  flitting  in  and  out, — 

Repulsion  half,  and  mingled  love  and  hate, 

Were  struggling  there,  but  never  love  did  mate* 

Her  clear-cut  brow, —  her  eye  of  liquid  blue, 

Took  there  a  deeper  shade, — a  darker  hue, 


THE  LADY  OF  VAEDALE.  87 

And  half  arising  then  from  broidered  couch, — 

"De  Lacy,  lord,  were  hate  of  love  to  vouch 

My  inner  thought,  'twere  passion  truer  drawn 

Than  word  could  paint."    "Emilia,  morrow's  dawn 

Shall  test  the  skill  that  claims  my  maiden's  hand, 

And  on  divan  the  grandest  of  the  grand, 

Shall  witness  power  of  him  to  fall  or  stand." 

"Sir  Henri's  dead  !— ' '    "No  word  to  prove  the  truth." 

"And  yet  I  feel — "    "He  was  a  reckless  youth ; 

But  every  knight  that  manned  the  maddened  race, 

Had  wild  excitement  pictured  on  his  face. 

The  fleeing  Vale  was  many  a  rod  ahead, 

A  moment  checked  the  steed  that  madly  sped, 

Dismounted  quick  ;— and  freedom  once  regained, 

My  flying  roan  might  every  nerve  have  strained, 

And  following  instinct  madly  ta'en  his  flight, 

And  quick  outstripped  the  warrior,  stallion,  knight. 

The  Tourney  on,  and  tested  skill  afoot, 

The  Yale  is  there,  or  never  more  shall  look 

My  eye  on  fair  Emilia, — never  sue 

For  heart  and  hand  she  ever  held  so  true." 

"I'd  love  thee  more,  tho'  all  a  borrowed  hope 

Than  had  you  named  him  dead,  and  I  to  grope 

In  vagueness."    "Lady  'Milia,  never  fear, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  dry  thy  vainest  tear, 

And  Lacy  there,  or  e'en  a  matchless  Yale, 

Shall  name  thee  bride  !    No  more  shall  love  assail." 

"Again  my  thanks,"  and  recking  not  the  smile 

That  faintly  curled  his  nether  lip,  the  style 

Of  word,  of  phrase,  of  look,  she  calmly  paused. 

'Twas  empty  word  that  hopeful  feeling  caused.     4 

A  villain  bold  that  plotted  for  a  crown, 

'Twas  love  of  gain  that  deepened  there  in  frown  ; 

But  later  on  a  softer  look  assumed 

Its  place,  and  scenes  where  gayest  flowers  bloomed 

Were  painted  there  in  loveliest  word  and  phrase, 

And  half  forgetting  woe,  the  softened  rays 

Of  Phoebus  wooed  a  face  of  hopeful  calm, 

And  less  of  dread,  of  fear,  of  vain  alarm. 

XII. 

"Emilia,  since  your  mind  is  freer  found, 
A  simple  song  when  boyhood's  joys  were  round, 
Half  won  my  love,  seems  drawn  for  you  and  me. 
The  Tiger-Lily  then  its  name  ;  and  beauty, 
And  love,  and  joy,  and  hope,  and  hate,  and  woe, 
Were  true  imagined, — softly  came, — did  go  ; 
'Tis  short,  'tis  sweet  ;  the  lilies  bloom  and  blow." 


88  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

TIGEB-LILY. 
1. 

I  gave  the  tiger-lily  then, 

And  she  blushed  out  again,  again. 

I  said,  as  soft  as  falling  leaf, 

Of  all  my  loves  thou  art  the  chief. 

I  'rayed  her  brow  with  many  a  flower, 

And  gaily  fell  the  hour  on  hour. 

But  love,  oh,  love  ! 
Thou  art  a  god, 

And  reign  above 
With  golden  rod. 


We  trod  the  fields  of  flowery  May 
When  Flora's  shrine  was  fresh  and  gay, 
And  love,  and  life,  and  sweetness  there, 
Seemed  love  and  life  of  ether  air, 
And  flighty  bird,  and  laughing  rill, 
Seemed  more  a  dream  than  thing  of  will. 

But  oh,  my  maid, 
When  Love's  the  god, 

The  softest  shade 
Is  sometimes  flawed. 

3. 

He  came  across  the  meadows  green, 
A  shapeless  form,  a  hateful  mien. 
He  stood  beside  her  at  the  bars, 
The  night  came  on  and  shone  the  stars. 
I  loved  her  not,  I  hated  him, 
And  fell  the  hours  like  shadows  grim. 
Oh,  love,  oh,  love  ! 

Why  wert  thou  made  ? 
Thy  reign's  above, 
Why  here  to  fade? 

4. 

The  Lily  'rayed  his  snowy  breast 
A  flower  and  weed  they  were  at  best  • 
She  knew  it  not,  but  I  the  whole, 
And  daggers  rankled  in  my  soul. 
She  loved  him  for  his  pretty  form, 
Out  which  the  soul  had  died  and  gone. 
Oh,  foolish  maid ! 

Oh,  Cupid's  tool! 
You  best  had  stayed 
Tho*  I  a  fool ! 


TIIELADYOFDARDALE. 


He  left  her  in  the  winter  eve, 

He  left  her  there  that  did  believe, 

She  wept,  a  lily  lowly  bowed, 

And  I  so  cold,  and  hard,  and  proud, 

With  hate  for  love,  his  treacherous  art, 

Then  pressed  her  closer  to  my  heart. 

Oh  varied  love ! 
Oh  mystic  thing  ; 

Thy  home's  above, — 
Why  here  to  sting? 

6. 
SONG. 

TL  9  Lily's  gone,  my  bonnie  Will, 

But  you  and  I  are  one, 
His  step  was  like  the  dancing  rill 

That  sparkles  in  the  sun  ; 
His  laugh  was  like  the  rippling  wave 

That  throws  a  yellow  foam, 
But  tempts  to  deep  and  watery  grave 

Beneath  the  coral  dome. 


He  oped  my  eyes  that  wore  a  shade 

As  dark  as  charnel  gloom, 
And  tho'  his  form  in  flowers  was  'rayed, 

They  wore  a  tomb-like  bloom  ; 
His  glance  of  love  was  like  his  heart 

That  beat  a  Cupid's  tune, 
A-like  a  mad  enchantress  art 

That  steals  the  rose  of  June. 


Forgive,  forgive  your  simple  maid, 

Her  simple  heart  or  neither, 
'Twas  she  to  blame,  and  she  that  strayed 

From  love  that  ne'er  deceived  her! 
The  lily's  gone,  but  here's  my  hand 

Inflect  of  all  his  feigning, 
As  once  it  was  when  Cupid's  band 

Thro'  Eden  eves  was  reigning. 

XIII. 

"And  not  my  claim  a  worthy  one  ? 

And  ever  truer  love  begun  ? — 

This  Henri  Yale  a  newer  love, 

But  vainly  has  Emilia  strove. 

The  Henri  gone,  and  Lacy  then 

Shall  take  the  place  no  knight  has  ta'en ! " 


90  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"  'Twere  vain  to  argue  love  affairs, 
They  spring  like  life,  have  hopes,  despairs. 
'Tis  time  shall  paint  my  lover  true, 
'Tis  time  shall  clear  the  darker  view, 
'Tis  time  shall  prove  him  true  or  false, 
'Tis  time  alone  that  never  halts, 
Time  makes  the  hero,  lover,  knight, 
The  king,  the  queen,  the  laureled  wight, 
The  god,  the  sage,  the  warrior,  chief, 
The  love,  the  woe,  the  hope,  the  grief, 
The  priest,  the  bride,  the  husband,  saint, 
The  bard,  the  maid,  the  youth  to  faint,— 
Discovered  stars,  and  rivers,  lands, — 
The  mystic  things  'tis  time  commands, 
It  gives  us  empires  yet  to  be, 
The  land  of  serfdom, — liberty ; 
The  storm,  the  war,  the  famine,  drouth, 
The  truth,  the  lie,  the  guess,  the  doubt ; 
The  golden  age,  the  Eden  homes, 
The  Empress  climes,  the  fallen  Komes, 
The  buried  cities  of  the  past, 
And  judgment  Day,  the  greatest,  last!" 
"And  Lacy's  love  to  'Milia's  wed, 
Tho'  Yale  a  living  knight  or  dead." 
"To-morrow'll  name  the  husband, — bride ! 
To-morrow' 11  mark  the  knight  that  died, 
For  Lacy's  word  has  said  the  knight 
Shall  wield  the  arm  'mid  Tourney  dight, 
And  he  alone  to  tell  the  tale 
That  marks  the  fate  of  Henri  Vale." 
"Were  skilled  thy  arms  as  words  to  spar, 
Emilia's  name,  a  rising  star, 
Should  dazzle  all,  a  Vale  outshine, 
And  Lacy's  fame  to  past  confine. 
But  yet  adieu,  for  pressing  cares, 
Momentous  things,  and  love's  despairs, 
Are  claiming  now  my  time,  my  thought — ' 
"Then  'Milia's  love  is  nothing, — naught?  ' 
"For  you  alone  I  fly  in  haste, 
For  you  alone  the  Vale  is  faced ; 
Emilia's  name  that  mans  the  soul 

For  victory,  life,  or  death, 
Emilia  Beauty's  name  has  stole, 

And  thicked  the  warrior's  breath. 
For  her  I  fly  to  name  the  knights, 
The  steeds,  the  warriors,  weapons,  wights, 
The  kind  of  arms,  the  axe,  the  spear, 
The  ladies  where  and  how  appear, 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE.  91 

The  plot  of  groundwhere  touruey  moot 
Shall  test  the  strength  of  rivaling  knights, 

And  darts  and  spears  shall  flying  shoot, 
With  deathful  aim  in  matchless  fights, 
To-morrow's  sun  shall  light  the  hero  to  his  bride 
To-morrow's  noon  shall  show  the  death  the  knight  has  died, 
To-morrow's  eve  shall  dusk  the  Tourney's  bloody  field, 
To-morrow's  night  hold  balm  for  him  that  did  not  yield ; 
And  fair  Emilia  made  the  Queen  of  Beauty's  fair, 
Shall  bear  the  wreath  and  crown  the  Lacy  ?— Vale  ?— and  share 
The  tributes  paid  by  matron,  warrior,  chief,  and  maid, 
And  hold  the  highest  place  that  ever  Beauty  'rayed." 

XIV. 

And  there  alone  in  dreadings  of  the  morrow, 
A  sweeter  peace  she  softly  then  did  borrow, 
Yet  magic  words  and  bold  De  Lacy  gone, 
A  newer  woe  in  newer  hope  did  dawn, 
And  straying  there  from  room  to  larger  room, 
No  surcease  came  to  less  her  Henri's  doom, 
And  yet  a  something  often  sadly  felt 
When  peace  and  hope  are  fainting,  softly  melt, 
Lent  wish  to  her  to  ken  the  coming  mom, 
And  claim  the  secret  Henri  dead,  and  gone  ? 
And  aimless  there  she  wandered  all  alone, 
Without  its  mate  true  love  would  never  own 
Another  heart.    A  sweetness  in  the  calm 
That  love  shall  find  when  shorn  of  vain  alarm. 

xv. 

The  day  was  waning.    Ever  love  that  died 

When  life  is  sure,  and  she  a  promised  bride  ? 
But  hark!  there  comes  a  sound  as  music  floating  there! 
A  lover  sings  aloud,  his  love  is  peerless  fair, 
He  paints  a  picture  of  a  Peri  of  the  dawn, 
And  never  maiden  lady  fairer,  fairer  born ! 
Her  eyes  the  stars  that  shimmer  soft  athwart  the  sky, 
And  while  she  lives  true  love  shall  never,  never  die. 
The  accents  floated  softly  to  the  easement  pane, 
Where  woncl'ring  beauty  lowly,  sweetly  breathed  a  name ! 
"My  Henri's  voice  ?    Alive !  alive  to  win  the  fray ! 
Emilia  now  shall  calmer  wait  the  Tourney  Day!" 
And  breathless  there  as  rigid  statue  marble  bound, 
Entranced  she  stood.    Her  heart  that  gave  the  only  sound. 

EVELEEJT. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  hush  of  eve, 
Her  face  the  hue  of  morning, 


92  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

A  soul  of  hope  that  could  not  grieve, 
A  starlight  in  the  dawning ; 

Her  smile  was  soft  as  lily  sighs, 
The  sobbings  of  the  cresses, 

The  stars  outshone  her  mellow  eyes, 
And  gold  her  silken  tresses. 

A  heart  to  melt  for  needy  alms, 

A  hand  where  hope  was  blooming, 
A  little  Eden  frought  of  charms, 

A  star-bespangled  glooming ; 
A  flower  that  wantons  in  the  breeze, 

A  tender  golden  flower, 
A  siren  from  the  emerald  seas, 

A  siren  maid's  her  power. 

Sweet  Eveleen,  pure  Eveleen, 

The  rainbow  in  its  glory 
Has  not  the  hues  that  ray  thy  een, 

Has  not  so  varied  story ; 
Has  not  the  richness  of  thy  smile, 

The  softness  of  thy  beauty, 
Thou  art  unflect  and  free  from  guile, 

And  know'st  thy  fullest  duty. 

Thou  hast  a  hope  for  every  heart, 

Thou  Plato  queen  of  heaven, 
A  perfect  soul  is  all-thy  art, 

Immaculate  was  given ; 
Thou  art  Diana's  self  in  life, 

Thou  Cupid's  fleckless  maiden, 
No  tinge  thy  face  of  empty  strife, 

Thou  art  not  sorrow  laden. 

The  thoughts  shall  rise  at  glance  of  thee, 

All  passion  cease  at  mention, 
Thou  star  of  morn  and  maid  of  beauty, 

With  gods  in  soft  convention ; 
Thou  rainbow  maid  and  star  of  eve, 

Thou  flower  in  perfect  sweetness, 
The  loveliest  rose  shall  bowing  grieve 

And  cater  for  thy  meekness. 

The  gods  shall  sigh  and  queens  of  air 
Shall  bow  from  highest  glory, 

For  thou  art  queen  of  fairest  fair, 
And  queen  of  Plato's  story ; 


THE  LADY  OF  DAliDALE. 

The  queen  of  love,  the  queen  of  hope, 

The  queen  of  every  nation, 
The  queen  that  every  eye  shall  ope 

With  love  and  adoration. 

Fair  Eveleen,  queen  Eveleen, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  beauty, 
Sweet  Eveleen,  dear  Eveleen, 

A-loving  you  a  duty ; 
A-loving  you  the  purest  thing,— 

And  fame  and  fleckless  glory, 
Attend  thy  \valks  and  amorous  cling 

Like  Calvary's  beauteous  story. 

Thou  art  the  second  here  of  earth, 

Another  spotless  Mary, 
Thy  home  is  here,  but  heaven  thy  birth, 

Thou  maiden  soft  and  chary ; 
Thou  art  Diana  fairer  made, 

And  more  in  chime  of  numbers, 
And  tho'  my  queen  should  live  to  fade, 

Thou'll  live  beyond  her  slumbers. 

XVI. 

The  song  has  died,  and  'Milia's  maid 
Finds  there  a  moveless  form.    Dismayed, 
She  turns  at  first  in  quest  of  aid ; 
A  frighted  shriek  escapes  her  tongue, 
But  bolder  grown,  she  paused, — has  clung 
In  helpless  sympathy.    Moves  the  form, 
And  half  arising, — "Is  he  gone?" 
"Her  mind  is  wandering.    Lives  again 
The  past.    Yes,  madly  o'er  the  plain 
There  dashes  hero,  knights,  and  swain ; 
Thy  lover's  gone — "    "Some  water,  please ; 
My  mouth  is  parched.    How  still !— No  breeze  \ 
What  means  it  all  ? — Why  helpless  here  ? — 
'Tis  Lacy?— Yale?— The  knights  appear; 
They  fight , — are  gone, — a  voice, — a  song ! — 
I  faint,  and  Eveleen ! — Belong 
These  things  to  life  ?    I  live, — yet  dream ; 
A  steed,— a  song,— a  brook,— a  stream 
As  madly  whirling  as  my  thought ; 
A  sterner  power  my  senses  caught ! — 
Recovered !— Letta  bathes  my  brow. 
O  where  are  Yales?— De  Lacys  now?" 
Lady  Graville  were  Lacy's  aid — ' 
"No,  never,  never !    Letta,  maid, 


94  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

Your  arm,  and  lord  nor  knight  shall  come 
To  aid  me.    Softer  couch  than  stone 
That  love  were  else  than  what  it  is, 
Yet  mine  a  sweeter  far  than  his. 
I  wander.    Letta,  hear  my  tale, 
A  moment  past  sang  Henri  Yale — " 
'  'Alive !— and  Lacy  ?— "    '  'Naught  of  him, 
A  lord,  but  yet  a  shadow  grim. 
I  left  you,— slowly  wandered  here, 
From  hall  to  room.    The  sky  was  clear,— 
Ascended  slow  the  tower,  and  tiring, 
I  wandered  here,  and  half  desiring 
To  hear  the  truth  tho'  death  the  tale, 
I  vainly  looked,  and  planned.    No  Yale ! 
The  moments  dragged.    An  hour  was  fled, — 
And  did  he  live ?— did  breathe?— was  dead?— 
A  thousand  things  came  flitting  fast, 
And  half  despaired,  I  rose.    At  last 
A  song  came  floating  softly  here, 
I  started,  gasped ;  the  helpless  tear 
Was  trickling  down,  of  joy,  or  woe, 
I  recked  not.    Dream  ?— I  ne'er  may  know, 
But  Henri's  voice  in  sweetest  song 
Did  softly  sound ;  and  faint,  less  strong, 
I  swooned.    'Tis  all  a  tangled  dream, 
A  swollen  brook,  a  mountain  stream, 
Where  debris  mingling  whirl  together, 
And  wildly  turning  in  and  out, 
The  human  mind  a  ray,  a  doubt ; 
'Tis  done.    'Tis  gone.    No  power  shall  sever 
True  love  from  love  tho'  knight  be  dead ! 
A  Lacy  lives,  I  living,  wed 
Him  on  the  morrow.    Word  is  given, 
No  other  knight  so  madly  striven, 
No  other  knight  to  match  his  skill, 
If  Yale  be  dead  he  hath  his  will !" 
"Have  hope,  my  lady,  yet  may  Yale 
Arise,  the  Lacy's  arm  assail." 
"Oh  vain  the  hope.    The  song  my  fancy, 
And  woe  it  were  did  soft  entrance  me ; 
But  yet,  but  yet,  the  doubt  unsolved 
May  prove  itself,  and  be  resolved 
To  living  Yale  in  morrow's  dawn, 
As  knight  and  chief  come  bravely  on, 
And  chiefest  there  in  Tourney  'ray, 
Kise  matchless  o'er  the  knights  in  fray. 
I  picture  now  the  morrow's  dawn, 
The  troubadour's  bold  paean,  song, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAIiDALE.  95 

The  lute,  the  harp,  the  dissonant  din 

As  knights  and  warriors  rushing  in, 

The  wild  commotion,  nodding  plumes, 

The  castle  back  that  grandly  looms, 

The.  mailed  chiefs,  the  knights,  the  steeds, 

The  swaying  throng,  a  heart  that  bleeds, 

The  fearless  chiefs  for  life  or  death, 

A  madness  surging  with  their  breath,— 

The  test,  the  fray,  the  dying,— dead  I— 

The  picture  darks !— a  sound !— a  tread !" 

"Emilia,  day  is  waning  fast," 

And  coming  close,  his  eye  he  cast 

Direct  upon  the  maiden's  face, 

As  there  her  love  or  woe  to  trace. 

"Father,  yes,  the  day  is  fading,  fading, 

With  love  nor  hope  its  fleeing  aiding." 

"Thy  paleness  now  will  vanish  then—' 

"E'en  paler  where  are  fighting  men." 

"Thy  promise  given,  night  shall  fade 

And  finding  yet  a  wedless  maid 

Shall  teach  her  heart  to-morrow's  eve, 

Xor  single  love  to  weep,  to  grieve, 

But  Lacy  reigning  matchless  knight, 

Shall  claim  his  own  ere  deepened  night 

Proclaim  the  flight  of  gladsome  day, 

And  knight  and  warriors  in  array." 

"Sir  Henri  dead,  and  Lacy—"    "Thine 

The  promise  given,  wish  is  mine, 

And  yet  if  Sir  de  Yale  shall  claim 

A  living  right  the  bride  to  name, 

Nor  word,  nor  look,  nor  act  of  mine, 

Shall  ever  prove  I  sigh, — repine, 

Tho'  Lacy  more  than  Conrad  dead 

Has  closer  my  affections  wed, 

His  valor,  prowess,  matchless  skill, 

Might  strengthened  force  that  sways  my  will, 

And,  too,  my  age  more  easily  won, 

Were  vainer  now  to  name  him  son. 

The  Vale  is  manly,  bold,  and  brave, 

His  death  will  fill  a  hero's  grave ! 

I  ill  could  reck  a  Dardale  lord 

Should  go  behind  his  given  word, 

So  Yale  or  Lacy,  mine  the  hand 

To  give  him  welcome  where  he  stand, 

And  give  my  daughter,  freely  give, 

While  love  with  love  shall  clasping  live!" 

"I  thank  thee,  tho'  I  ill  could  see 

The  right  to  check  love's  liberty ; 


98  TIIE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  such  the  style,  the  way,  the  form, 

And  knightly  deed  and  act  were  gone 

If  love  to  life  had  ne'er  been  born, 

For  love  is  king  of  warrior's  heart, 

It  mans  his  breast,  and  knighthood's  art — 

It  makes  the  hero,  knight,  the  brave, 

The  bard,  the  sonnet,  song, — the  grave, 

The  fame,  the  name,  the  chiseled  stone, 

The  sigh,  the  tear,  the  wail,  the  moan, 

The  Raphael  art  in  magic  skill, 

The  riveless  poem,  power,  will, 

The  higher  life,  the  lowly  heart, 

The  skill  and  magic  of  all  art ; 

It  makes  the  sway  of  empire's  rod, 

It  makes  my  Lacy  serf  or  god, 

It  pictured  forth  the  loveliest  scenes, 

Is  matchless  king  of  lovers'  dreams, 

It  paints  my  Henri  perfect  born, 

For  love  is  blind  the  poets  say." 
"Then  Yale  of  all  his  beauty  shorn, 

If  love  be  gone  and  is  away?" 
"A  judge  to  name  my  thoughts'  reply, 
'Twere  loveliest  found  to  'Milia's  eye, 
And  yet  his  beauty  quick  might  die, 
Should  love  take  wings  and  cageless  fly." 
"Enough.    We  dine.    The  morn  is  fled ; 
I  would  thy  Henri  were  not  dead, 
For  I,  and  more  than  any  knight, 
Would  see  them,  face ; — the  tested  fight 
Proclaim  which  there  the  matchless  right 
To  name  Emilia  wedded  maid, 
And  test  and  fray  forever  fade. 
But  come.    My  arm  shall1  aid  thy  step ; 
All  yestere'en's  woe  is  gone ;— forget  ;— 
The  future  now  shall  claim  our  thought, 
And  memory  faint  where  knights  have  fought." 


Name  not  the  power  that  held  its  sway 
While  bard  and  verse  no  severing  ray, 
While  bard  and  verse  as  one  with  one, 
The  glowing  beauties  'neath  the  sun, 
Enraptured  sky  the  dome  of  both, 
Till  bard  and  verse  be  vainly  loath 
To  part,  to  live  in  other  haunts, 
Tho'  fairer  scene,  more  beauteous  fonts, 
To  him,  to  her  who  sees  the  verse 
A  barren  field  where  notes  rehearse 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE.  97 

An  empty  tale  of  vanished  years, 
Where  hearts  and  flowers  in  shedded  tears, 
Made  mountains  seem  the  little  flecks 
That  marked  the  tale,  to  years  the  specks 
That  darked,  that  spotted  other  lives, 
To  them  the  binding  power  of  gyves 
Yet  they  alone  to  find  the  bulk 
An  outline  dark,  a  wrecked  hulk 
Against  the  sky  where  waters  rave 
And  sing  no  song  but  mouldered  grave. 
The  Lacy  fought,  and  all  to  them  !— 
Shall  heartless  one  the  tale  condemn  ? — 
And  Henri  meet  him  face  to  face  !— 
Shall  tameless  ear  no  living  trace 
Of  beauty,  boldness,  matchless  skill, 
On  Tourney-ground,  where  chief  his  will, 
In  flight,  to  death  ?    Away,  away ! 
The  sun  shall  sparkle  bright,  e'en  gay, 
The  varied  beauties  twined  around, 
Shall  raise  the  soul.    The  hoofs  resound. 
And  on,  and  on,  yet  madly  flies, 
The  morn  is  spread  across  the  skies, 
And  Nature's  beauty  fills  the  soul 
Of  poet  rapt,  and  oceans  roll 
Between,  yet  vain  to  less  the  view, 
As  fresh  the  scene  as  tho'  the  dew 
Undried  by  sun  was  there  to  tell 
The  living  life,  the  breasts  that  swell 
In  Beauty's  fray,  and  reaching  claim 
The  maid,  the  hero  born  to  fame, 
The  common  fact,  the  dullest  phase, 
The  heavenly  beauty  there  that  lays 
Its  finger  on  the  coarsest  thing, — 
And  birds  of  Faery  brighter  wing  ? 
The  tale  'its  faults,  its  beauties,  yet 
To  bard  the  fault  is  Beauty's  debt, 
For  bound  in  softest  fancy's  hue 
The  faults  and  beauties  sparkle  thro' ; 
And  passion  gone,  the  voicef  ul  Muse, 
The  faults  and  beauties  soft  transfuse. 
'Twas  various  mood  that  shaped  the  tale, 
A  varied  host  did  there  assail, 
A  judgment  finer  than  of  man 
To  pluck  the  weeds  that  wildly  ran,  » 

And  twined  themselves  with  flowers  rare ; 
And  yet  if  weeds  and  flowers  fair 
Were  not  together  mingled  there, 
The  verse  less  true  tho'  fairer  found, 
7 


98  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  Paradise  where  joys  confound, 

A  darkened  vale,  a  gloomful  scene ; 

The  tale  a  joy  that  once  had  been ; 

For  flowers  unflect  of  weedy  vine, 

A  sunless  haunt,  a  darkened  mine. 

The  days  that  rarest  seem  to  me 

Are  days  where  rains  have  left  their  beauty . 

One  scene  of  love  that  Eden  knew, 

A  living  death  across  the  blue. 

'Tis  light  and  shade  that  shape  the  joys 

That  fill  the  hearts  of  laughing  boys ; 

'Tis  light  and  shade  that  paint  the  views 

That  brighter  shine  thro'  darkened  hues ; 

'Tis  light  and  shade  more  beauties  claim 

Than  light  alone  where  Edens  reign ; 

For  light  and  shade  in  beauty  vie, 

And  tempt  the  rarest  thought,  the  eye 

That  vainly  looked  for  Beauty's  charm, 

Where  flowers  alone  the  deathly  calm 

To  deck.    Away !    'Tis  light  and  shade 

The  rarest  joys  have  vying  made ; 

And  he  who'd  trace  the  routes  of  life, 

And  find  no  light  and  shade  at  strife, 

Were  sooner  leap  the  castle  wall, 

Where  Shade  has  spread  his  darkened  pall, 

Where  Light  has  Mron  the  princely  seat, 

And  both  as  darkly,  brightly  meet. 

Emilia's  life  a  sunshine  ray, 

And  naught  to  fleck  the  firelight  gay, 

Her  tale  no  interest,  shorn  of  charm, 

Where  all  were  peace,  no  vain  alarm, 

No  struggling  lovers  in  the  fray, 

No  Tourney  marked  for  morning  ray. 

The  Henri  came ;  he  loved  the  maicl ; 

They  ramble  there  by  hawthorn  shade, 

Unchanging,  changeless !    Noble  sire 

Has  named  them  one     The  priest  is  there ; 

No  woe,  no  strife.    A  castle  home ; 

A  wide  expanse  where  love  may  roam ; 

A  mountain  rill ;  a  laughing  brook ; 

A  modest  shepherd  bowed  on  crook 

Shall  see  them  there  as  twin  with  twin, 

And  naught  of  what  there  might  have  been, 

But  is !    The  tale  were  dead.    No  art, 

Or  magic  from  the  poet's  heart, 

To  paint  the  scene  to  please  the  eye 

That  has  no  kinship,  wordless  sigh. 

But  ah,  but  ah !  'tis  varied  life. 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE.  99 

And  light  and  shade  at  once  in  strife 
Make  glowing  scenes.    The  tale  is  rife, 
And  varying  man  finds  varying  tale, 
Where  woes  and  joys  in  masks  assail. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 

"The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he, 
Who  sang  of  Border  chivalry."— Scott. 

Move  on,  my  Pen !  the  goal  is  reached ! 

And  who  that  ever  bard  impeached, 

Has  loathed  the  rhyme  that  won  a  view 

From  misty  past,  and  painted  true 

Or  false,  as  Nature's  muse  has  named 

Him  rhymster,  poet  ?    An  hour  was  claimed 

To  paint  a  phase  of  vanished  life, 

Where  lover,  warrior,  in  the  strife, 

Made  Glory  rise  in  proud  array, 

And  crown  the  field  with  Victory ! 

Made  love  and  country  theme  of  right, 

And  named  the  hero  in  the  fight, 

O  magic  Past !  thy  honored  shade 

Is  but  the  Now  thro'  time  displayed, 

With  little  change  of  general  phase, 

With  little  difference  in  the  ways 

That  named  the  years  when  Now  was  naught, 

And  time  no  second  time  had  wrought. 

Thy  spirit  bolder,  manned  the  field 

And  heroes  born  to  die,  not  yield, 

Met  face  to  face  as  brave  a  foe, 

And  foe  and  foeman's  blood  should  flow, 

Ere  axe  or  blade  should  soil  the  dust 

That  bravery  dyed,  or  master  thrust. 

'Twas  valor  then  and  valorous  war, 

'Twas  bravery  won,  no  other  law, 

And  he  that  raised  the  axe  or  blade, 

Grew  hero  there  or  fell  to  fade ; 

No  accident  of  reaching  gun, 

Where  luck  and  chance  together  won 

Made  battle  theirs,  but  bravest  skill, 

And  blood  was  rushing  like  the  rill, 

And. warrior,  hero,  coward  fell ! 

Ah !  who  such  magic  story  tell  ? 

A  Homer  paints  his  Past,  his  Now, 

For  poets  ever  humbly  bow 


100  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DABDALE. 

To  things  that  were,  that  passing  go 
Shall  will  a  tale  of  joy  and  woe. 
"Tig  he  should  ken  the  sweep  of  time 
And  picture  truly  in  his  rhyme 
The  past,  the  present,  scene  on  scene, 
The  things  that  were,  that  once  have  been, 
Make  Nature's  laws,  and  Life's  his  guide, 
And  woo  them  each  as  flowered  bride, 
And  he  who  paints  the  truest  tale 
Is  proof  against  old  Time's  assail ; 
No  hurried  pen  shall  win  the  years 
That  seem  like  mist  thro'  falling  tears, 
Unless  the  Muse  in  ecstacy 
Shall  half  inspire  her  Bard  of  beauty ! 
So  much  is  said,  so  many  write, 
That  time  and  tide  shall  ever  fight 
For  but  the  chief  est  brain,  the  thought 
Where  Poesy's  fancies  finer  caught, 
Have  wrought  in  master  song,  and  bold 
Have  soared  the  highest  mounts  of  old, 
And  years  on  years  on  single  work,* 
Have  made  it  Bride !  Oh,  never  shirk 
A  duty,  further,  better  law 
Has  made  of  use.    To  say  I  saw 
A  needless  error  in  the  line, 
But  hurried  on  to  fairer  clime, 
The  task  more  easy  truce  to  time, 
And  time  shall  show  it  in  thy  rhyme. 
Oh,  soar  again  the  Scottish  mounts, 
And  Memory  chiefest  in  the  reign, 
Paint  blasted  splendors  in  the  brain, 
Where  rill  and  mountain,  gurgling  founts, 
Where  heroes,  warriors  in  the  strife 
Where  war's  alarms  are  potent,  rife, 
Where  builded  field  a  battle  tells, 
Where  martial  music  proudly  swells, 
Where  Memory's  hand  shall  fall  the  home, 
And  Scotchmen  o'er  the  Wall  of  Rome, 
In  predatory  warfare  name 
The  justness  of  their  native  claim, 
And  fighting  there  in  Indian  wile 
Defy  them  all  that  would  defile. 
From  towering  height  wTith  master  sweep, 
Let  all  the  glowing  colors  teach 
A  lesson  of  a  Nation's  life, 
This  field  that  marked  an  English  strife, 
A  Scottish  victory,  grounded  arms, 

*  Paradise  Lost,  Childe  Harold,  etc. 


THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  ED  ALE.  101 

A  battle  o'er,  the  wild  alarms 
That  come  as  heirs  to  every  land 
New  born  to  life,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Make  Nations  perish,  rise  to  fall, 
Or  fall  to  rise.    There  seems  a  thrall 
O'er  every  clime  when  first  the  axe 
Of  Civilization  rings.    The  facts, 
And  every  nation's  earliest  stage 
Stamps  blood  and  woe  on  history's  page. 

Now  far  to  north  and  west  the  islands  loom, 
Yet  hold  no  tale  of  Scotland's  years  of  doom, 
The  bold  North  Sea  that  sweeps  upon  the  east 
Is  muttering  yet  tho'  Scotia's  wars  have  ceast, 
And  on  the  South  her  grandest  enemy  rears 
Her  bannered  hills  and  towers,  but  Albion's  tears 
Are  mingled  now  with  Scottish  peasant,  lord, 
And  each  and  each  are  bound  by  severless  cord. 
The  seventy  years  of  bickerings,  maddened  strife, 
Are  history's  themes,  and  there  alone  are  rife ; 
And  on  the  west  Atlantic's  waves  are  heard, 
But  red  and  fallow  deer,  the  roe,  and  bird, 
The  rabbit,  fox,  the  badger,  timid  hare, 
Have  heard  no  tale  of  ruin  once  was  there. 
The  golden  eagle,  ptarmigan,  and  pheasant, 
Are  free  to  fly,  for  wars  are  gone,  and  pleasant 
Farm-vales  with  kine  and  golden  glowing  corn 
Are  spread  to  view,  and  cities  rear  in  morn 
Their  hundred  turrets,  towers,  steeples,  all ; 
And  Lowlander  now  can  cross  the  Romish  wall, 
The  Highlands  free  from  blood  and  jealous  hate, 
For  time  has  made  the  warring  factions  mate, 
Admits  the  peaceful  song  and  love  of  dreams, 
No  blood  to  roil  the  wild  and  laughing  streams, 
For  gone,  are  gone  the  generations  there 
That  fought  for  home  and  country,  and  despair 
No  guest  of  scene  that  now  enchants  the  eye, 
The  vales  and  dales  that  bask  beneath  the  sky — 
My  God !  the  poet's  Muse  is  draped  in  shrouds ! 
A  gloom  has  spread  across  the  starless  clouds ! 
And  Queen  America  bowed  in  woe  and  tears 
Laments  assassin's  blow,  where  grim  appears 
The  fell  destroyer,  Death !  and  spreads  his  gloom 
Across  the  skies,  where  lately  flowerets'  bloom 
Was  sweet  o'er  mountain,  hill  and  dale,  and  Peace 
In  meek-eyed  beauty,  gave  to  woe  release, 
And  greatest  hour  since  Nation  saw  her  birth 
Rose,  crowning  her  the  Haven  of  all  the  earth ! 


102  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  Russian  murderer  taught  his  dastard  tale,* 

And  Nations  lent  their  tears,  and  rose  a  wail 

For  headless  Empire ;  scarce  the  tale  was  gone, 

When  Treachery,  pale-eyed  with  the  faded  morn, 

Eose  dark  and  grim,  and  Nation's  honored  Chief 

Fell  bleeding- !    Fifty  millions  in  their  grief 

Are  bowed  low  in  tears ;  but  bleeding  hearts 

Have  sent  their  stranger  tears,  and  Glory  starts 

In  proudest  love  that  universal  rose 

A  kindred  wail  for  bleeding  Chief !  his  woes ! 

Our  Country,  poised  between  a  Hope,— a  Fear, 

Nations  are  bending  low  above  thy  bier ! 

And  broadest  world  has  risen  a  kindred  friend, 

And  o'er  thy  woe  the  arching  bow  does  bend. 

Thy  grandest  Day  found  Chieftain  bathed  in  blood! 

And  all  the  past  seemed  rushing  like  a  flood 

Across  the  land,  and  muffled  was  the  drum, 

And  reverent  tread.    A  wail  above  the  hum, 

A  holiday  quick  lost  in  blackest  gloom, 

And  hearts  as  one  amid  the  national  doom ! 

Ah,  Scotland !  little  recked  the  wedless  Muse 

That  Tale  should  find  its  end  in  death-cold  dews, 

And  all  thy  woes  that  name  the  living  past, 

Should,  crushed  in  one,  rise  grim  upon  the  blast, 

And  bow  a  Nation  low  in  vainest  tears, 

As  pale-faced  horse  in  startled  Day  appears ! 

But  f aretheewell,  my  Scotia !  other  hands 

Have  told  thy  tales,  and  twined  the  matchless  bands 

About  thy  name !  and  stranger  Muse  in  grief 

Must  mourn  in  native  tear  for  murdered  Chief  I 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


And  memory's  knights  and  pictures  of  the  brain, 

Have  won  the  mastery,  reign  in  matchless  reign ; 

The  chief,  the  knight,  the  hero,  god,  and  brave, 

Are  living  'gan  tho'  fact  shall  point  their  grave ; 

Anachronism  has  borrowed,  present,  past, 

The  knights  may  reign,  and  once  again,  their  last, 

For  later  bard  may  start  a  searching  Taine 

To  paint  his  errors,  Knighthood's  ended  reign, 

And  hold  to  gaze  of  public,  far  and  near, 

But  fleshless  knights  that  mime  when  they  appear. 

*  The  Murderer  of  the  Czar. 


TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALK  103 

The  manners  gone  that  naught  but  Genius  claims, 
For  mighty  verse,  and  mighty  brain  that  reigns, 
Where  perished  style,  and  manners ;  all  are  gone, 
And  none  but  Scotts  to  shout  "On!  Stanleys,  on!" 
And  Faust  an  Epic  where  the  truest  gods, 
But  he  of  lesser  genius,  brains,  the  odds 
Are  such,  he  best  would  pick  from  modern  page 
And  leave  the  dead  ephemeral  things ;  his  age 
Make  glowing  seem,  in  easy,  softest  phrase, 
And  win  the  quickest  fame.    The  master's  ways 
Are  seldom  felt  till  Homers,  Miltons  die, 
And  dullards  stare  where  masters  once  did  fly. 
A  fame  and  name  were  least  of  all  my  knightly  verse, 
'Tis  love  that  sways,  and  tireless  brain  that  does  rehearse, 
Three  minds  alone  that  watch  my  weakly  soaring  mupe, 
'Tis  they  that  claim  a  claim  where  lesser  minds  refuse ; 
But  love  of  Poesy  true,  whate'er  the  world  may  say, 
Has  caused  the  Whites,  the  Keats  to  sing  the  deathless  lay. 
A  poet's  purse  is  ever  sign  of  genius  true, 
The  modest  muse  the  only  maid  that  flowers  strew ; 
But  greatest  genius  greatest  patience  knows, 
And  poetry 'sbalm shall  sweet  the  poet's  woes, 
E'en  time  and  tide  are  naught  where  love  shall  reign, 
And  master  genius  mans  the  poet's  brain, 
And  Christabels  shall  know  a  lengthened  gloom, 
E'en  Miltons'  verse  in  silence  live  and  bloom. 
The  years  are  gone  since  She  and  I  were  wed, 
And  many  a  friend  finds  place  among  the  dead ; 
But  still  nor  month  nor  year  has  quenched  my  love, 
The  stars  are  shining  e'en  as  bright  above, 
The  birds  as  free  are  winging  thro'  the  air, 
The  clouds  have  come  and  gone,*  a  sky  more  fairf 
Is  arching  o'er  my  native  land.    A  milder  power 
Has  swayed ;  and  never  nation  brighter  hour. 
Political  stars  have  risen  in  the  halls  of  fame, 
And  heroes,  poets  died  that  claim  a  deathless  name, 
New  systems  risen,  fallen ;  old  styles  once  again 
Reclaim  a  place  among  the  new,  and  living  reign ; 
The  town  has  grown,  the  Nation  won  a  broader  sway, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  are  floating  yet.    The  poet's  lay 
Is  marked  of  peace.    But  wars  are  ringing  o'er  the  sea, 
Drouth,  famine,  woe;  and  power  crushing  Liberty:— 
And  yet  my  fame  and  name  are  wandering  in  the  dark ; — 
But  on !  my  Muse !  my  thoughts  are  soaring  with  the  lark! 
The  knightly  past  has  balmed  my  tameless  soul, 
And  Caesars',  Poinpeys'  chariots  golden  roll, 

*The  Nation's  financial  and  other  troubles,     f  Reference  is  had  to  the  wholesome 
reign  of  President  Hayes. 


104  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

The  pageant,  feast,  the  paean  loud  and  long, 

The  carnival,  tourney,  maids  of  matchless  song, 

The  thousand  things  that  love  and  memory  claim, 

An  everlasting  sweetness  in  the  brain. 

The  scholar's  rule,  the  critic's  rigid  law, 

Who  spoil  the  charm  with  heavy  rule  and  saw, 

Would  dull  the  charm  of  all  poetic  art, 

And  paint  a  muse  that  never  won  the  heart. 

And  fair  Emilia  bards  alone  to  love  thee, 

Thou  art  as  pure  as  stars  that  shine  above  thee, 

And  could  my  muse  paint  you  a  fairer  muse, 

The  night  should  go,  the  ugly  dream  refuse ; 

But  yet  the  morrow  hold  a  softer  view, 

And  yet  the  morrow  paint  a  fairer  blue, 

The  morrow  make  thee  bride  of  matchless  knight, 

The  morrow — Ah !  and  faster  fades  the  light. 

The  -twilight  shades  in  vying  beauty  play ; 

The  sun  has  sunk.    'Tis  night,  and  Luna's  ray 

Makes  golden  bars  on  'Milia's  nightly  couch. 

A  sleeping  statue  chiseled  fair.    I  vouch : 

'Twas  not  the  sleep  of  calmest  dreams, 

For  knights,  and  woes,  and  loves,  in  surging  streams, 

Were  sweeping  there.    A  hush  as  death,  the  tomb ; 

The  pale  cold  rays  of  Luna  bathed  the  room, 

The  draperied  couch  shone  faintly  o'er  the  face, 

Where  care  and  woe  their  lines  did  darkly  trace, 

And  love  in  misery  matchless  there  in  reign, 

Won  bitter  slumber.    Breath  and  sob  complain. 

She  moves.    Her  eyes  are  staring  thro'  the  night. 

She  sees,  but  recks  nor  sleep.    The  mellow  moonlight 

Is  gloomed.    A  cloud  has  veiled  her  marble  face. 

The  night  grows  dark.    A  sound,— a  voice,— no  trace 

Of  living  presence  save  the  sleeping  maid, 

Yet  slumber  there  in  binding  trance  has  stayed. 

LADY  EMILIA'S  DKEAM. 

"Awake,  my  Emilia!  the  night's  waning  fast, 
The  morning  is  dawning,  the  knights  in  the  blast ! 
Awake  to  the  summons  of  Henri  de  Vale, 
Who  cometh  in  strength  with  the  star  on  his  mail, 
The  light  on  his  brow,  and  the  nod  of  his  plume 
Shall  make  the  De  Lacy  go  down  to  his  doom ! 
Awake !  and  awake !  or  the  lark  of  the  morn 
Shall  sing  his  loud  lay,  and  thy  Henri  be  gone ! 
Awake !  and  awake !  for  the  morrow's  fair  bride 
Shall  win  her  true  love  in  the  blood-mingled  tide. 
And  the  hero  that  sped  in  the  wind  of  the  morn 
Rise  chief est  of  chiefs  in  the  Tournament  dawn ! 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  ED  ALE.  105 

The  Conrad  lies  sleeping  in  cold  sodden  grave, 

The  years  have  been  flying  like  sweep  of  the  wave, 

My  'Milia  from  youth  has  arisen  to  power, 

And  not  her  fair  rainbow  to  gloom  in  an  hour ! 

The  Henri  came  marching  at  head  of  his  clan, 

To  meet  the  Gravilles  that  e'er  fought  as  they  ran ; 

The  son  of  the  father  shall  come  with  his  sway, 

And  love  is  the  weapon  the  warriors  shall  slay. 

The  feud  that  our  fathers  e'er  named  in  their  hate, 

Is  thing  of  the  past,  and  true  lovers  may  mate ! 

I  come  not  to  conquer  the  home  of  your  sire, 

Or  dig  from  the  grave  \vhat  should  ever  be  there, 

But  to  win  my  true  love  with  the  sway  of  my  skill, 

And  name  thee  my  bride,  and  the  queen  of  my  will! 

When  the  Conrad  was  named  as  the  clay  of  the  earth, 

Another  and  fairer  grown  brave  from  his  birth, 

As  bold  in  his  arm  and  as  great  in  his  skill, 

Was  chief est  of  chiefs,  undisputed  in  will, 

And  reigning  the  king  in  the  heart  of  thy  sire, 

He  bade  me  defiance,  and  all  who'd  aspire. 

We  met  in  the  fray  by  the  moss-covered  stone, 

'Twas  Lacy  nor  I  that  would  utter  a  groan ; 

But  came  the  wild  sire  on  the  mad-flying  steed, 

The  fray  was  abandoned,  no  more  should  we  bleed. 

They  pressed  on  my  front,  and  they  pressed  on  my  back, 

Hurra  for  De  Lacy,  and  mad  on  the  track, 

His  stallion  and  I  like  the  sweep  of  the  flood 

Were  dashing  and  whirling,  while  faster  the  blood 

From  wrounds  of  his  sword-blade  was  dying  my  cloak, 

And  wilder  the  stallion,  and  madder  he  broke, 

Till  fainting  from  strain  and  the  loss  of  my  blood, 

I  fell  from  the  steed,  while  his  flight  thro'  the  mud 

Fell  dazed  on  my  eye ;  and  the  warriors  rushed  hence, 

Nor  sight  of  my  form,  for  the  bushes  were  dense. 

The  light  faded  out,  and  the— warriors !— my  sense 

Was  gone,  and  the  eye  of  the  sun  in  the  sky 

Was  shining  as  bright  as  no  warriors  did  fly, 

Or  knight  on  the  grass  was  awaiting  to — die  ? 

But  I  live,  my  Emilia !  to  meet  on  the  morrow 

The  knight  of  the  castle  no  sorrow  does  borrow, 

And  the  set  of  the  sun  in  the  glow  of  the  even, 

Shall  name  you  a  bride,  and  as  freely  as  given 

Your  heart  will  respond,  for  the  fray  of  the  morning 

Shall  crown  thy  Sir  Henri  the  chief  of  the  dawning ; 

But  yet,  my  Emilia,  the  night's  fading  fast, 

Awake  from  thy  slumbers,  and  out  in  the  blast! 

The  steed  is  awaiting,  and  flight !  and  away ! 

And  savage  De  Lacy  stands  matchless  in  sway. 


106  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  the  wish  of  thy  heart  in  the  fray  of  the  morning, 
That  Henri  and  Lacy  should  meet  in  the  dawning, 
Is  sacred  as  love  to  the  heart  of  the  lover 
When  promise  is  given,  and  none  are  above  her. 
The  night  and  the  morning  in  meeting  are  wed, 
The  flight  of  thy  Henri  else  Henri  lies  dead ; 
So,  adieu,  my  Emilia !  in  sweetness  of  slumber, 
Thy  Henri's  away  ere  the  shackle  shall  cumber ! 
A  kiss  in  thy  dreams  ere  thy  Henri  shall  part ! 
A  kiss  that  springs  lightly  as  love  to  the  heart ! 
And  away  from  your  dreajns  like  the  dew  of  the  morn, 
The  bubble  that  rises  but  sooner  is  gone !" 

n. 

And  her  eyes  staring  wildly,  she  broke  from  the  dream, 
And  rang  thro'  the  castle  the  cry  and  the  scream. 
The  maid  from  her  slumber  (that  lighter  was  none, 
For  love  in  her  breast  did  nor  wail,  did  nor  moan), 
Awoke  with  a  start,  and  a  mantle  near  by 
Was  chief  of  her  clothing  as  wild  she  did  fly. 
"Oh,  Lady  Emilia !"  and  shook  like  a  leaf 
The  menial's  form  in  her  woe  and  her  grief, 
As  there  in  the  room  of  the  dream-wedded  maid 
She  paused,  and  she  stared,  was  alarmed  and  afraid. 
"Oh,  Letta,  I  have  dreamed  a  horrid  dream, 
My  thoughts  were  flying  wildly  as  a  stream, 
I  saw  the  Henri  plainly  thro'  the  gloom, 
He  gave  the  past,  the  present,  morrow's  doom. 
'Twas  but  a  dream,  but  ever  painter  made 
Could  limn  so  true  in  beauty  faultless  'rayed  ? 
And  ever  poet's  matchless  song  and  verse 
So  sweetly,  softly  maiden's  love  rehearse  ? 
A  dream,  and  yet  the  sweep  of  all  my  life, 
A  dream;  the  knights  were  warring  there  in  strife." 
"A  paleness  on  thy  cheek,  and  but  a  dream  ? — 
And  I  was  dreaming,  else  a  horrid  scream—" 
"I  cried  aloud  so  perfect  seemed  the  scene, 
But  quell  thy  fear  and  show  more  modest  mien 
Ere  lord  and  knight  shall  enter  here  in  haste, 
And  not  a  dream  or  woe  would  there  be  traced 
On  face  of  mine  or  semblance  on  your  own, 
Else  dagger-thrust — the  cry — the  parting  groan ; 
For  Lacy's  wrath  would  know  no  bounds  if  here 
He  felt  the  Vale  had  come  and  gone— did  clear 
The  castle  moat,  and  safety  marked  his  way, 
As  now  he  speeds  him  thro'  the  dawn  of  day— 
But  hark !  a  heavy  footfall  sounds  without ! 
A  knock !  oh,  Letta !  move  thee  quick  about, 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  107 

As  thou  wert  frightened  now  instead  of  I, 

As  you  it  were  that  gave  the  larmfid  cry ! — 

Oh,  father !— Lacy !— maid  is  frighted  sore ! 

I  cried  in  dream,  she  bursts  the  creaking  door ! — 

She  rushes  here,  half  clothed,  and  wild  of  mien, 

And  startled  cries,  a  loud,  a  piercing  scream, 

Brakes  from  her  lips.    But  past.    She's  calmer  now. 

Poor  Letta,  wilt  my  story  disallow?" 

"No,  Lady,  Letta  heard  thy  startled  scream ; 

But—"    "Startled  ?"    "Then  it  was  my  horrid  dream. 

I  heard  thy  voice,  and  half  awake  I  came. 

I  see  no  reason  thou  shouldst  bear  the  blame." 

"About  that  Vale  I  hold  no  doubt."    "In  truth, 

Her  dreams  are  ever  of  that  valorous  youth ; 

And  who  to  blame  her,  Lord  Graville  ?  I  love : 

No  power  of  heart,  of  earth,  of  skies  above, 

To  guide  a  dream  in  other  channel.    I, 

My  lord,  would  soothly  see  his  knightly  eye 

In  fixedness  soft  melting  to  her  gaze. 

No  wish  have  I  to  name  her  bride  if  frays 

Shall  crown  the  Henri  victor  in  the  field, 

And  Lacy  there  is  forced  his  bays  to  yield. 

The  dreams  of  love  are  ever  past  the  solving, 

'Tis  then  the  thoughts  and  mind  are  wild  revolving:— 

But  come,  my  lord,  the  Tourney-day  is  breaking ; 

The  Gala  dawned,  the  lords  and  ladies  waking, 

Shall  dream  no  dream  but  Victory  there  adorning 

The  chief est  wight  in  'Rora's  fairest  morning." 

"A  word,  Emilia,  may  I  hope  the  dreaming 

Has  won  no  paleness.    Axe  and  spear  are  gleaming, 

The  buckler,  helm,  and  corselet,  greaves,— and  you 

Outshone !    Oh,  never,  'Milia.    Eyes  of  blue 

Are  sparkling,  and  the  hue  of  health  has  graced  thee, 

And  none  of  Beauty's  train  have  e'er  replaced  thee. 

The  Queen  of  Tourney !    Chief  among  the  maids ! 

My  pride  no  shock.    And  when  the  even  fades, 

The  Henri  or  the  Lacy  names  thee  bride, 

And  tears  of  joy  will  flow  in  mingled  tide." 

"I  thank  thee  for  thy  wisely  proffered  words, 

And  'Milia's  heart  as  light  as  song  of  birds, 

And  Lacy  there  stands  Victor  in  the  ring. 

And  ne'er  Emilia  to  his  love  shall  fling 

The  glove  of  hate ;  so,  father,  rest  assured 

Whichever  conquers,—  has  the  best  endured, 

Shall  win  my  hand,  and  no  dissenting  voice 

Shall  rise  to  mar  the  scene  where  all  rejoice." 


108  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 


The  bell  rang  wild  upon  the  air, 

Proclaiming  o'er  the  castled  land, 
That  warriors  come,  and  maidens  fair, 

To  ken  the  fray  for  Beauty's  hand ; 
And  warders,  heralds,  went  abroad, 

And  faster,  faster  flew  the  news, 
The  knight  to  come,  the  haughty  lord, 

And  knightless  knights  that  would  refuse. 
The  morn  was  bright  and  clear  as  aye, 

And  cloudless  there  the  arching  sky, 
And  never  fairer  Gala  day 

Held  lord  or  knight  a  memory. 
The  Henri  brave  had  won  a  fame 

In  all  the  border  land, 
And  many  a  knight  would  soothly  claim 

Him  master  of  her  hand ; 
But  Lacy  bold  and  Conrad  brave, 

Had  won  a  deathless  fame, 
And  many  a  warrior  in  his  grave, 

That  Beauty's  hand  did  claim, 
Was  sleeping  now,  for  cither's  blade 

Had  opened  many  a  grave, 
And  many  a  laureled  name  did  fade, — 

And  flowers  o'er  it  wave. 
An  open  test  to  any  wight 

Who'd  dare  the  Lacy's  blade, 
To  warrior  bold,  and  valorous  knight, 

To  any  loved  the  maid ; 
And  lord,  or  youth,  or  courtier  proud, 

Or  warder,  herald  bold, 
Or  any  knight  that  mocked  the  shroud 

That  nerveless  limbs  enfold. 
The  blade  of  Lacy,  axe,  or  spear, 

On  horse,  on  ground,  on  foot, 
Should  test  the  skill  where  they  appear 

Who'd  prove  the  tourney-moot. 
If  but  a  test,  then  life  were  safe, 

But  once  the  Beauty's  hand 
Was  held  the  game,  and  in  good  faith, 

Beware  the  Lacy's  brand! 

1. 

"Oh  would  you  see  the  gala-day 
That  marks  our  border  land, 

Then  hie  thee  quick,  and  then  away 
And  fetch  thy  border  brand, 
And  fetch  thy  border  brand. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  109 

2. 
"The  Lacy' s  here  as  bold  as  aye 

With  victory  in  his  een, 
And  when, the  queen  shall  dark  the  day 

He's  king  of  all,  I  ween, 

He's  king  of  all,  I  ween. 

3. 
"Oh  come  ye  one,  oh  come  ye  all, 

And  come  ye  with  a  will, 
The  Henri  or  the  Lacy'll  fall, 

And  each  from  lack  of  skill, 

And  each  from  lack  of  skill. 

4. 
"But  Henri's  dead  they  say,  they  say, 

And  yet  a  doubt,  I  trow, 
He  fled  the  roan  away,  away, 

To  death  no  man  can  know, 

To  death  no  man  can  know. 

5. 
"But  dead  and  gone  the  fray  goes  on, 

And  Lacy  worsts  them  all, 
And  he  who's  chiefest  of  the  morn 

Has  Beauty  in  his  thrall, 

Has  Beauty  in  his  thrall. 

6. 
"I  thrum  the  lute,  and  strike  the  lyre, 

And  fire  my  hero  on, 
My  voice  shall  rise  in  notes  of  fire 

Until  the  hero's  born, 

Until  the  hero's  born. 

7. 
"My  Lacy  met  the  Conrad  brave 

And  laid  him  in  the  dust, 
The  flowers  bloom  above  his  grave, 

His  blade  has  gathered  rust, 

His  blade  has  gathered  rust. 

8. 

"If  Henri  lives  he'll  dye  the  sod 

With  blood  he  ill  can  spare , 
'Tis  Lacy  chief  of  axe  or  rod, 

'Tis  Lacy  claims  the  Fair, 

'Tis  Lacy  claims  the  Fair. 


110  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

9. 

"But  haste  thee  now,  the  hell  has  rung, 
Castellan  out  of  breath ; 

The  heralds  gone,  the  troubadour's  sung, 
The  fray  'tis  life  or  death, 
The  fray  'tis  life  or  death ! 

10. 
"Oh  come  ye  one,  oh  come  ye  all, 

Oh  come  ye  blithe  and  gay, 
'Tis  Lacy  or  the  Knight  shall  fall, 

Or  bear  the  prize  away, 

Or  bear  the  prize  away. 

11. 
"The  day  is  on,  it  won't  be  long 

Ere  crowds  are  gathered  here, 
The  lute  is  strung,  the  paean  song 

Is  bold  upon  the  ear, 

Is  bold  upon  the  ear. 

12. 
"From  moated  bridge  to  castle  tower 

The  banners  flaunt  the  breeze, 
The  din,  the  majesty  of  power, 

Are  soft  upon  the  trees, 

Are  soft  upon  the  trees. 

13. 

"The  tree,  the  rock,  the  donjon-tower, 
The  high,  the  low,  the  place  of  power, 
Are  filling  fast,  are  filling  fast, 
And  thro'  the  blast,  and  thro'  the  blast, 
The  castle  bell  has  rung  its  last, 
The  castle  bell  has  rung  its  last." 

IV. 

And  he  that  loves  the  border  tale, 

And  knighted  chiefs  that  fight  in  mail, 

And  vanished  Tourney's  Knighthood's  days, 

And  foolish  poets'  lovelorn  lays, 

And  scenes  that  Memory's  hand  shall  paint, 

Where  struggling  chiefs  and  warriors  faint, 

And  valor  names  the  knight  alone 

Where  truest  bravery  ever  shone, 

And  maids  were  won  with  matchless  skill, 

And  chief  alone  to  name  his  will, 

Nor  reaching  gun  nor  felt  nor  known, 

But  valor  all  claimed  Beauty's  own, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAE  DALE.  Ill 

Shall  list  the  tale  where  masters  reign, 

And  native  song  from  native  brain, 

A  thousand  joys  has  scattered  round 

In  sweet  profusion  o'er  the  ground, 

And  live  for  aye  the  Minstrel's  tale,* 

And  knights  and  warriors  clad  in  mail. 

If  seneschal,  and  harder ;  names 

A  native  tongue  in  art  reclaims, 

Have  found  no  place  within  my  verse, 

'Twere  smoother  numbers  would  rehearse. 

The  Indian  words,  and  jagged  names 

That  many  a  poet  ever  claims, 

My  Goldsmith  shunned,  my  deathless  Burns, 

And  every  bard  that  smoothness  yearns. 

'Twere  easy  thing  for  poet's  brain 

To  roll  like  boulders  words  of  fame ; 
But  he  who'd  win  the  critic  and  the  world, 
Should  couch  his  verse  in  language  where  unfurled 
Are  banners  that  shall  claim  the  Beauty's  eye, 
The  swain's,  the  scholar's,  poet's.    Yerse  to  fly 
The  higher  thought  in  language  pure  and  terse, 
Where  Beauty  reigns  supreme  o'er  Beauty's  verse. 
The  Proclamation  far  and  near  had  gone, 
And  never  shone  a  fairer  Tourney  morn. 

The  borderer,  knight,  and  Highland  chief, 

The  maid  of  love,  and  woe,  and  grief ; 

The  mailed  chief  on  barded  steed, 

The  warrior  bold  to  claim  the  meed 

Of  public's  wild  and  loud  applause, 

The  knight  that  knew  the  Tourney  laws 

By  heart.    The  bard,  the  lover,  youth ; 

The  holy  seer  and  man  of  truth ; 

And  some  in  mail,  in  courtly  dress, 

In  beauty,  maidens  that  confess 

The  god  of  Love's  unswerving  reign ; 

The  courtier,  lord,  were  in  the  train ; 

A  various  view  as  one  could  see, 

And  shimmering  gold,  and  maids  of  beauty 

The  burnished  shield,  the  helmet  barred, 

The  knighted  chiefs  all  silver  starred, 

The  wimpled,  and  the  beavered  face, 

And  Chivalry  there  its  lines  did  trace ; 

The  cap-a-pied  wight,  and  champion  brave ; 

And  many  a  plume  did  nodding  wave. 

The  straying  jowler,  hunting  beagle, 

The  helmed  hat  with  flying  eagle ; 

*Scott. 


112  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

Castellan,  minstrel,  singing  bard ; 
The  flying  banners  flowered,  starred ; 
The  page,  the  squire,  the  yoeman,  all ; 
Retainers,  heralds,  warders.    Fall 
Within  the  crowd  the  strong,  the  brave, 
The  knight,  the  courser.    Banners  wave ; 
The  hum  of  many  voices.    Horns 
And  trumpets.    Ballad-monger  scorns 
Not  there  to  sing  his  paean  loud ; 
The  high,  the  low,  the  haughty,  proud ; 
All,  all  seemed  there ;  but  chief  in  reign, 
The  fairest  maid  that  ever  swain, 
Or  knight,  or  chief  bowed  humbly  to, 
'Neath  starlit  dome  in  even's  dew. 


Emilia,  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  Song, 
To  her  as  Queen  the  Tourney  did  belong, 
To  her  the  every  eye  was  yearning  turned, 
And  many  a  warrior's  heart  hath  madly  burned 
For  lesser  maid  in  charm  of  face  and  heart, 
For  lesser  maid  where  Eros  winged  his  dart, 
And  lives  were  one  no  lesser  god  could  part ; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  surging  throng, 
Where  floated  lute,  and  lyre,  and  paean  song, 
She  marked  the  face  and  form  of  coming  knight ; 
But  ah,  but  ah,  no  Henri  met  her  sight ! 
"Oh,  was  he  dead?"    Ambition  there  was  won, 
But  sorely,  sorely  felLthe  scene.    The  sun 
Rose  high  and  clomb  the  tallest  castle  tower. 
The  glancing  mail  and  shield,  the  throne  of  power, 
Reflected  bright  the  dazzling  rays. 
The  ring  is  formed.    The  trumpet  brays ; 
The  heralds,  warders,  chief  of  chiefs, 
Are  prancing  there.    But  grief  of  griefs, 
The  forming  mass,  the  trumpet  notes, 
The  banner  there  that  softly  floats ; 
All,  all  to  her  a  dreary  sight. 
"My  daughter! — paleness! — oh,  so  white! 
Thy  Henri' 11  come,  and  chief est  here, 
Win  fame  with  axe,  or  sword,  or  spear. 
The  Tourney  yet  is  not  of  death, 
No  warriors  fight  with  heavy  breath, 
'Tis  joust,  and  test  that  name  the  hour 
Till  valorous  knight  shall  meet  the  power 
The  Lacy  owns,  but  then  a  care  I 
'Tis  death,  the  coming  knight,  and  where 


THE  LA  D  Y  OF  DAE  DA  LE.  1 13 

To  match  De  Lacy  long  in  song 

As  Bravery's  chief?"    The  surging  throng 

Is  wilder  grown.    The  Tourney  on, 

Excitement,  every  calmness  gone. 

In  mockery  fray  two  knights  are  met, 

And  never  warrior  bolder  yet. 

The  spears  are  couched,  the  stallion  flies ; 

A  heavy  shock,  but  neither  dyes 

The  other's  breast  with  darkened  blood ; 

But  from  his  saddle  to  the  sod 

The  venturous  knight  is  hurled.    The  cheers 

Are  ringing  loud,  unborn  of  fears, 

For  feudal  arm  and  feudal  fray, 

Are  chief est  there,  are  all  display. 

Another  knight  shall  mount  the  steed, 

Another  stallion  madly  freed, 

Shall  teach  a  fear  to  softer  breast, 

Tho'  anger's  wounds  are  not  redressed. 

VI. 

The  music*  floats,  the  prancing  steeds 
Are  wilder  grown.    The  trampled  weeds 
No  deeper  dye ;  'tis  sport,  a  tilt, 
No  gushing  wound,  no  reddened  hilt, 
No  blood  that  anger's  haste  has  spilt. 
They  meet !— a  crash !— a  wild  huzza, 
From  castle,  tree,  from  near  and  far. 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  dreamy-eyed, 
No  Henri's  form  has  there  descried, 
And  wandering  thoughts  have  won  her  brain, 
Tho'  knights  are  there  in  maddened  reign. 
A  day-dream  view.    She  sees  the  knights, 
The  crowed,  the  steeds,  the  flags,  the  flights ; 
She  hears  the  wild  huzza,  the  lute, 
The  trumpet,  drum.    Graville,  pale,  mute, 
She  sees.    The  flashing  eye.    The  sweep 
Of  horse  'gainst  horse,  the  shock,  the  leap ; 
She  sees  the  knights  on  foot,  their  helms, 
Their  shields, — the  braver  overwhelms ; 
The  armor  donned,  and  then  replaced 
By  cloak,  the  mailless  form  is  traced ; 
The  swords  are  crossed,  and  lightning  stroke 
Falls  rapid ;  ringing  sounds  have  broke 
Upon  the  ear,  the  flashing  blades, 
The  tireless  hand.— A  mist  it  fades, 
Her  eye  an  empty  look.    A  song 
Is  floating,  sounds  a  heavy  gong, 
Till  voice,  and  tone,  and  prophet's  word 
8 


1 14  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

Rang  boldly,  every  heart  was  stirred. 
A  mailed  knight  with  beaver  drawn, 
On  barded  steed  came  sweeping  on ! 
His  mail  of  blue  no  warrior  knew, 
Nor  charger  on  whose  back  he  flew, 
Nor  anything  about  the  knight, 
Who  mail-clad,  steel-clad,  handsome  dight, 
Sang  loudly  paean  notes  of  fire, 
As  any,  all,  were  challenged  there ! 

VII. 

SONG. 

"I  come  not  to  conquer  the  home  of  your  sire, 
Or  dig  from  the  grave  what  should  ever  be  there, 
But  to  win  the  fair  Queen  with  the  sway  of  my  skill, 
And  name  her  my  bride  and  the  choice  of  my  will ; 
And  Lacy  the  king  in  the  breast  of  thy  sire, 
He  bade  me  defiance,  and  all  who'd  aspire, 
And  no  morrow  shall  dawn  o'er  his  pain  or  his  woe, 
For  the  blood  of  his  breast  in  the  Tourney  shall  flow, 
And  warriors  and  maids  that  have  sighed  at  his  skill, 
Shall  bend  like  the  willow,  the  form  cold  and  still, 
And  the  tears  of  their  eyes,  and  the  sighs  of  their  heart, 
Shall  be  o'er  the  glory  that  rose  but  to  part. 
The  Conrad  he  conquered  in  years  that  are  gone, 
And  his  skill  and  his  valor  rose  chief  with  the  dawn. 
The  fray  with  the  axe,  and  the  spear,  and  the  blade, 
Gave  him  name,  gave  him  fame,  that  the  years  do  not  fade. 
But  Tourney  is  on  when  the  might  of  his  sway 
Shall  fade  like  the  star  in  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  victor  unknown  shall  retire  from  the  view 
Of  the  sire  of  the  maid  if  the  knight  clad  in  blue 
Shall  feel  not  his  eye  in  its  pride  and  its  glory 
In  kindliness  fixed,  and  age  old  and  hoary, 
Shall  give  not  his  hand  to  the  victor  in  waiting, 
But  name  the  alliance  but  fatal  in  mating !  . 
I  challenge  the  Lacy  to  mortal  combat,  • 

And  never  than  Lacy  a  bolder  knight  sat ; 
Tho'  Conrad  lies  sleeping  in  cold  sodden  ground, 
With  naught  of  the  Tourney  nor  warrior  knights  round, 
But  the  bird  of  the  air  or  the  sigh  of  the  wind, 
Yet  lives  there  a  knight  in  whose  valor  shall  find 
The  star  of  his  glory  fast  sinking  in  gloom, 
And  the  Lacy  the  Conrad  shall  be  in  his  doom ! 
They  smile  on  his  glory  of  Lacy  in  death, 
They  weep  and  they  wail,  but  the  dew  of  their  breath 
Is  chill  as  the  sweat  that  shall  cover  the  dead 
When  Lacy,  his  glory  and  victory  are  fled, 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE.  115 

And  the  light  of  the  morn  e'en  as  mellow  and  fair 
Shall  shine  on  the  dead,  but  no  Lacy  is  there ; 
And  the  sigh  of  the  wind  and  the  song  of  the  bird, 
Are  soft  on  the  morn,  but  no  Lacy  has  heard !" 
And  loudest  huzzas  on  the  morning  were  breaking, 
The  hills  and  the  mountains  in  echoes  awaking. 

VIII. 

But  coldly  calm,  imperative  arose 

The  Lord  Graville:  "And are  ye  cowards,  foes! 

This  bold-songed  knight  and  all  defiant  here ! 

Up,  up !  and  mount  for  fame,  and  love ;  and  cheer 

The  Lacy,  ever  matchless  found,  and  teach 

The  stranger  knight  more  civil  word  and  speech !" 

Sir  Maynard,  ever  first  in  border  raid, 

The  theme  of  verse,  and  never  far  dismayed, 

Bold  sprang  to  horse,  and  charged  upon  the  knight, 

Who  couched  his  lance,  and  spurring  as  for  flight, 

As  bravely  met  the  knight  as  any  chief 

Could  wish.    A  shock,  and  Maynard  came  to  grief. 

A  loud  huzza,  as  rolling  in  the  dust 

The  angry  Maynard,  never  more  to  trust 

The  mystic  knight.    A  first,  a  second  there, 

Has  met  the  warrior.    Hope  against  despair ; 

But  now  a  loud,  a  deafening  sound,  and  Lord 

De  Lacy,  prancing  wildly  o'er  the  sod, 

Enclad  in  darkest  mail,  bold  dashes  thro' 

The  ring,  and  face  to  face  with  knight  of  blue, 

Thunders :  "The  Tourney's  not  of  blood,  and  yet 

The  Lacy  many  a  braver  knight  has  met ! 

'Tis  Queen  of  Beauty's  hand,  and  life  or  death  ! 

Sir  Knight,  and  brave,  darest  breathe  above  thy  breath?" 

The  answer  came ;  but  cheer,  and  wild  applause, 

And  louder  yet :  "Come  on  ye  Chief  of  Outlaws  !" 

Commingled,  drowned  the  words.    "Our  Lacy's  won 

The  bravest  Conrad.    Ever  fray  begun 

That  vanquished  Sir  de  Lacy  dyed  in  blood ; 

'Twere  children's  play  that  marked  the  fray  of  wood !" 

IX. 

All,  all  the  scene  she  saw,  the  rallying  heard, 

The  speech,  the  cheer,  the  hot,  the  angry  word. 

She  gazes,  'tis  the  empty  sight  of  dreams  ! 

The  knights  are  met  1    The  dark  mail,  blue  mail  gleams. 

Applause,  and  cheers,  and  voices  strike  her  ear. 

"On,  on  I  De  Lacy  I    Teach  thy  border  spear 

A  deathly  art,  and  pierce  the  silken  mail 

Of  him  who  dares  the  Lacy's  life  assail !" 


116  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

They  charge ;  a  jar ;  a  heavy  shock ;  a  hush ; 

A  deathly  calm.    'T was  harmless.    'Gan  they  rush; 

The  steeds  are  foaming.    Statues  stood  the  throng, 

And  wonder  grew.    And  who  so  matchless  strong? 

The  Lacy  pants,  shows  signs  of  sudden  fear, 

But  crash  !  and  broken  falls  the  Lacy's  spear  ! 

Another  tougher,  bolder  made,  for  foe 

Seems  stronger  found.    The  reddened  blood  does  flow 

'Tis  Lacy's  !    No,  the  knight  that  fights  in  blue ! 

"Up,  up  !  my  bowing  plumes,  the  fray  renew  ! 

On,  on  !  Sir  Knight !  on,  on  !  my  Lacy,  too  ! 

And  never  Tourney-fray  more  matched  and  true." 

x. 

The  music  floated.    Drowned  with  cheer  and  cry, 
Its  melody  heard  nor  felt.    The  stallions  fly, 
A  heavier  crash,  and  tumbling  to  the  ground, 
The  maddened  Sir  de  Lacy  up  doth  bound. 
"And  who  Sir  Knight  that  hurls  the  Lacy  down?" 
But  cheers,  applause,  the  angry  accents  drown! 
The  drum,  the  trumpet,  fainter  harp  and  lute, 
In  dissonance  wild  jarring.    Silent,  mute, 
The  angry  Lord  Graville.    Nor  word,  nor  sound ; 
'Twas  wonder,  fear  his  form  and  accents  bound. 
"Unhorsed  by  accident,  for  never  knight 
So  bold  a  deed!"  the  Lacy  cried.    The  flight 
Of  free-reined  steed,  the  cheers,  the  wilder  cries, 
The  mad  commotion.    Wilder  yet  he  flies. 
"Dismount,  and  battle-axe  shall  win  the  field, 
And  never  a  Sir  de  Lacy  yet  shall  yield!" 
And  quick  as  thought,  yet  silent,  calm,  as  brave, 
He  leaped  the  ground,  and  never  choice  did  crave. 
The  crowd  are  cheering.    Wildness  rampant  there. 
.  The  flashing  sun,  the  castle,  maidens  fair ; 
The  hurrying  heralds,  warders,  courtiers,  knight; 
The  banners  flaunting  blue,  and  gold,  and  white ; 
The  champing  steed,  the  straying  dog,  the  flash 
Of  spear,  of  shield,  of  greaves.    The  heavy  crash ; 
The  minstrel,  bard,  the  lute,  the  harp.    The  cry : 
"On,  on  !  De  Lacy  !    Never  fairer  sky 
To  meet  a  foe  !"    In  mingled  sound,  and  view, 
Are  breaking,  flashing  there.    The  Knight  in  Blue 
Is  rushing  now  !    The  Lacy  meets  him  bold. 
The  crowd  are  still,  the  lute,  the  harp.    Behold ! 
They  meet  I  and  heavy  axes  ring  the  air. 
The  mystic  knight  is  brave,  but  signs  despair  ! 
He  staggers !  falls  ?— No,  never  !    Braver  yet, 
The  cheers  loud  ringing  Lacy  lord  is  met ! 


THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE.  117 

The  blows  are  heavy,  helms  are  cleft  in  twain, 

The  Lacy  falls  !    A  rush.    The  knights  restrain 

The  maddened  crowd.    But  Lacy  gains  his  feet. 

"Again,  Sir  Knight,  the  Lacy's  force  shall  meet 

Thy  mightier  force.    On  horse,  on  ground,  with  spear, 

With  axe,  thy  strength  has  won.    The  crowd  shall  cheer, 

A  louder,  madder  cheer,  ere  Lacy's  blood 

Shall  dye  the  sod  where  he  and  Valor  stood!" 

And  now  the  cheer,  the  noise,  the  shout,  the  din, 

The  music  soft,  voluptuous ;  hill  and  linn 

In  echoes  sound,  resounds  the  noise.    Emilia, 

And  pallid  white,  sits  calm,  and  never  stir 

Of  handkerchief,  hand,  of  flag,  of  axe,  of  spear, 

But  chains  her  eye  where  seen  a  sparkling  tear, 

As  love,  as  dread,  as  doubt,  as  hope  'gainst  hope, 

Had  won  their  mingled  reign.    While  there  to  grope 

In  dark  of  gloom,  she  silent  sat,  and  yet 

Her  face  has  changed  ere  knights  again  are  met. 

A  deathly  pallor,  hectic  flush,  and  fixed 

Her  trembling  eye  as  one  unnerved,  transfixed, 

Upon  the  form  of  mystic  Knight.    She  starts  ! — 

But  sounds  the  trumpet.    "Thine  the  art  of  arts, 

Sir  Knight ;  and  were  the  Yale  alive — were  here  ! 

With  sword,  with  axe,  with  mace,  the  border  spear, 

I'd  prove  that  Valor's  Chief  is  living  yet ! 

For  never  braver  knight  has  Lacy  met ! 

And  Conrad  less  in  prowess,  less  in  strength, 

E'en  Lacy  feared  his  sword,  but  length  to  length, 

He  fought  the  try  sting-fray,  and  Lord  Graville,— 

A  moment  later  Lacy's  form  was  still !" 

Surprise  and  cheers  commingled  now.    "And  I, 

Sir  Lacy,  give  thy  word  so  false,  the  lie  I" 

And  Lord  Graville  from  throned  power  arose, 

"And  he's  a  knave,  and  ranks  among  my  foes 

Who  palters  nonsense  thus !"    "Ah,  Lord  Graville, 

You  little  reck  the  strength,  the  power,  the  skill, 

Of  Henri  Yale  !— But  come  !    They  shout  I  pause 

To  rest ! — Sir  Knight,  again  the  right  of  laws 

That  names  the  weapons.    Third,  and  aye  !  the  last 

Shall  be  in  mailless  garb  with  sword!"    A  blast 

From  trumpet.    Heralds  rush  about.    The  crowd 

Is  madly  cheering.    Rings  the  bell  aloud. 

The  third  and  last  of  feudal  tourney  frays ; 

The  third  and  last!    The  sun  in  fiery  blaze 

Is  pouring  there.    From  sod  and  velvet  seat 

The  courtiers,  maids,  have  risen  now,  and  meet 

In  glance  the  flashing  eye.    The  third— the  last, 

And  blood,  and  death  !— The  day,  the  night  is  past, 


118  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  who  the  victor  ? — Rings  the  Paean  now  ! — 

Emilia,  ah,  a  lily  pale  does  bow! 

And  Lord  Graville  ? — A  paleness  on  his  brow  ! 

SONG. 


"Come  ye  one,  come  ye  all,  for  the  third  and  the  last, 
No  corslet,  no  helmet,  is  now  in  the  blast ; 
The  fray  in  the  wood  by  the  moss-covered  stone, 
The  fray  with  the  Conrad  all  bravely  alone ; 
The  fray  of  the  past,  and  present  and  all, 
The  fray  of  the  frays,  but  a  braver  shall  fall, 
A  braver  of  deed,  and  a  wilder  of  skill, 
And  the  blood  shall  be  gushing,  and  flow  like  the  rill, 
And  the  moans  of  the  maids,  and  the  matrons,  and  fair, 
Shall  rise  on  the  wind,  and  the  crowd  in  despair, 
Shall  rush  like  the  stallion  that  dashes  the  plain 
When  the  battle  is  o'er,  and  the  dying  and  slain 
Are  piled  like  the  hills  in  their  life  and  their  death, 
Where  havoc  has  swept  them  with  sweep  of  a  breath, 
And  the  woe  of  all  woes  seems  as  thick  in  the  blast 
As  the  cries  of  the  living  when  life  breathes  its  last. 

2. 

"The  Queen  of  the  Tourney  in  Beauty  and  Glory 
Shall  reign  with  her  sire  who  is  old,  gray  and  hoary, 
And  he  who  was  victor  in  frays  without  number, 
Shall  rise  in  his  might  as  in  death  shall  he  slumber. 
The  rapier,  sword  in  its  magical  sway, 
Shall  flash  in  the  morn  and  be  crown  of  the  day, 
And  he  who  is  master  of  sword  as  of  spear, 
The  Lacy  shall  lay  on  his  last  resting  bier  ! 
They  meet, — and  the  stallions  are  mad  in  their  sway ; 
They  meet, —  and  the  riders  are  wild  in  the  fray ; 
They  meet,— and  the  helms  are  now  cloven  in  twain ; 
Unhorsed  is  the  Lacy,  but  not  of  the  slain  ! 
The  crowd  is  loud  cheering,  yet  Lacy  is  there, 
As  brave  as  a  hero  e'er  fought  for  the  fair, 
And  wrath  in  his  step,  and  the  movements  of  hate, 
He  leaps  to  his  feet,  but  is  matchless  to  mate, 
The  mystic  Sir  Knight  who  is  grim  as  a  fate. 

3. 

"The  chargers  withdrawn,  with  the  axe  and  the  shield, 
The  Knight  and  the  Lacy.    But  neither  shall  yield  ?— 
They  meet  like  the  warriors  that  fought  in  the  past 
When  Glory  and  Valor  had  known  not  their  last, 
And  the  ring  of  the  axe  and  the  dissonant  steel 
Broke  loud  on  the  air,  and  no  warrior's  appeal 


THE  LAD T  OF  DARDALE.  119 

Was  heard  on  the  wind,  and  no  quarter,  no  cry. 

For  each  in  the  action  would  con^aer  or  die. 

The  Lacy  Achilles,  and  Hector,  mayhap, 

The  mystic  Sir  Knight  with  the  blood  in  his  track ; 

Yet  the  axe  and  the  shield  shall  there  laurel  the  k'aight, 

Who  Hector— Achilles  shall  stand  in  the  fight. 

The  axes  are  ringing,  and  Lacy  is  down, 

But  hid  'neath  the  beaver,  the  pain  and  the  frown, 

And  wild  in  his  ire,  his  demands  are  the  sword, 

Tho'  death  be  his  master,  and  wasted  his  blood. 


"Come  ye  one,  come  ye  all,  for  the  third  ana  the  last 

Shall  picture  the  hero  whose  glory  is  past, 

And  roses  and  bays,  and  the  laurels  around 

Shall  shine  on  the  Victor  by  Beauty's  hand  bound, 

And  the  cheers  of  the  crowd,  and  the  words  of  Graville 

Shall  fall  on  his  ear,  while  his  sway  and  his  skLl, 

Shall  sound  in  the  song,  and  be  wafted  on  high, 

While  the  conquered  lies  bleeding,  and  groaning  shall  die, 

And  the  maids  and  the  matrons  shall  weep  and  shall  wail, 

And  the  warriors  all  staring  shall  shake  in  their  mail, 

And  the  earth  and  the  sky  shall  be  filled  with  the  woe 

Of  the  dying, — the  dead,  and  the  warrior  laid  low : 

But  Queen  of  the  Houris  shall  rise  on  the  throne 

And  welcome  the  hero  that  conquered  alone, 

And  the  tones  of  the  maiden  shall  fall  on  his  ear 

As  soft  as  the  dew  or  the  flower-shed  tear, 

And  sweet  be  the  morrow  for  husband  and  bride, 

And  joys  without  number  shall  flow  in  the  tide!" 

XI. 

The  trumpet  sounds,  and  boldly  Lacy  cries : 
"In  mailless  garb,  and  warrior  lives  or  dies  !" 
And  maddened  there  he  hurls  the  helmet  down, 
And  deafening  are  the  cries,  his  accents  drown. 
The  corselet  madly  torn  from  reeking  breast, 
A  moment  more  and  mailless  knight  conf est ! 
"And  now  my  visored  hero  bare  thy  face ! 
'Tis  Lacy's  blade  would  give  thee  resting  place! 
'Tis  Lacy's  chiefest  weapon  wins  the  day, 
And  proves  him  more  than  Hector  in  the  fray!" 
The  crowd  is  moving ;— cheers ;— a  wildness  there. 
And  who  the  Knight?    Does  Sir  de  Lacy  dare 
Meet  face  to  face  the  man  of  master  skill, 
And  fear  no  death  ?    A  knight  in  goaded  will 
A  moment  pauses,  then  a  sweeping  glance, 
The  warriors,  mai  dens,  all,  seem  bound  in  trance, 


120  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

Then  mystic  Knight  as  calm,  as  cool,  before 

The  fastened  gaze,  did  trace  the  grassy  floor, 

And,  "Ladies,  warriors,  he  of  matchless  skill, 

Has  fought  me  thrice— the  fourth— the  last  shall  spill 

His  blood  or  mine !    The  glove  is  boldly  flung ! 

The  challenge,  music  on  my  ear  has  rung—' 

"Bare !  bare !    Disclose !  and  time  the  rest  shall  tell  I" 

The  various  cry  from  hundred  throats,  and  fell 

The  eyes  upon  the  moveless  form.    A  space, 

And  axe,  and  shield,  are  flung,  but  Knight,  no  trace. 

A  deathless  silence— falls  the  plume— the  helm  !— 

The  cheers, — the  cries, — the  shouts,  the  crowds  o'erwheln 

For  warrior  brave  that  stood  in  glittering  mail, 

Was  there  revealed  and,  stood  Sir  Henri  Yale  ! 

XII. 

The  cry,  the  shout,  the  deafening  din  rang  loud. 

"Emilia  faints  !"  resounds  in  accents  proud. 

"The  Lacy  staggers  !  Live  the  matchless  Vale  !" 

"And  now,  my  Lacy,  wilt  thy  Chief  assail?" 

And  saw  Emilia  Yale  in  gaudy  gold, 

With  dark  and  richest  velvet  fold  on  fold, 

And  started,  fainted ;  'gan  she  hears  the  cries  ! 

A  flash  !    'Tis  gone  !    She  opes  her  tear-dewed  eyes  ! 

The  father  bends  above  her  form.    "My  child, 

My  child,  art  faint  ?    And  oh — "  In  accents  wild, 

"The  fray !  the  fray !"— The  Lord  Graville :  "And  on, 

Sir  Lacy ! — Henri  Yale ! — and  thou  art  lorn. 

The  Lacy  now  shall  fight  in  goaded  madness!" 

All  eyes  are  fixed.    A  half-prevailing  sadness 

O'ershadows  fair  Emilia's  face,  for  now 

Is  life  and  death !    Shall  Lacy  disavow 

The  matchless  prowess,  skill  of  Henri  Yale, 

And  fearless  there  in  mightiness  prevail  ? 

XIII. 

The  trumpets  sound.    The  crowd  is  silent  now, 

And  softest  lyre  is  heard.    Does  Lacy  cow  ? 

Ah,  never,  never !    Goaded  madness  there, 

And  boldly  gives  the  angered  stare  for  stare. 

Two  eyes  are  met  that  flash  the  hate  of  hate ; 

Two  foes  are  met  that  matchless  are  to  mate ; 

Two  forms  are  drawn  where  power  and  strength  are  claimed ; 

Two  swords  are  crossed,  and  maddened  eye  has  flamed ; 

The  word,  the  sign,  and  sword-blows  cut  the  air ; 

The  word,  the  sign,  and  rivals  fighting  there, 

Are  madly  wroth,  are  madly  seeking  life, 

And  death  of  highest  noon  shall  end  the  strife. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE.  121 

XIV. 

The  Lord  Graville  in  wonder,  doubt's  amaze, 

Is  fixed  and  staring.    "Last  of  matchless  frays  ! 

And  who  the  Victor  !  Lacy  of  the  dead  ?" 

He  asks.    The  crowd  is  pressing.— Soul  is  fled  ? 

No,  silent  there  as  shackled  slave,  Emilia, 

And  pallid,  cold, — and  not  a  lash  does  stir  ! 

Her  gaze  as  fixed  as  pictured  heroine  ! 

She  hears  the  horns,  the  crowd,  the  sharpened  din  ! 

'Tis  Henri  now  and  not  the  mystic  Knight ! 

Shall  Lacy  find  a  better  skill,  or  flight 

Be  culmination,  consummation ! — Oh ! 

To  know  the  end,  the  fray,  the  all,  her  woe ! 

She  sees  the  knights.    The  cheers  are  ringing  now ! 

Her  father's  words :  "And  Lacy  faltering  bow  ? 

No,  never !    On,  my  Lacy !— on,  my  Vale ! 

'Tis  madly,  madly  there  the  knights  assail ! 

How  matchless  brave !    Oh  truly  balanced  skill  !— 

My  choice  with  either  wins !"    The  cries  are  shrill. 

"Thy  guard!  thy  guard!  the  Henri's  naked  blade 

Has  pierced  thy  breast!"— "The  Henri's  sword  is  stayed!" 

"Ah,  splendid,  Lacy!" — "Guard  !  thy  guard  !  Sir  Vale  !" 

"The  Lacy's  blade  has  found  a  sheath  !    The  Tale 

Is  o'er !    No  !  no !  the  Henri's  magic  parry 

Has  saved  him.    Lacy's  blade  death  seems  to  carry. 

Huzza  !  huzza !  the  blood  is  flowing,  flowing  ! 

Two  eyes  in  angry  hate  are  madly  glowing  ! 

They  feint,  they  meet,  the  blades  are  crashing  now  ! 

The  knights  are  cheering,  maidens  weeping.    Bow, 

Lady  Emilia.    No  !    The  death-thrust  made 

And  love  shall  leap  thy  cheek !    But  yet  arrayed 

The  dauntless  Lacy  in  his  magic  power,— 

And  Henri  Vale ! — his  plumes  o'er  Lacy's  lower ! 

Excitement's  reign  marks  Lacy's  blows.    The  Vale 

A  calmness  reckless  souls  shall  know.    The  wail 

Of  maids,  the  warriors'  cheers  commingled  there ; 

And  ever  stouter  heart?— a  stouter  dare  ? 

The  Lord  Graville  excited  now.    "And  claim 

The  laurels  now,  my  Lacy !— Vale !— The  slain 

Are  themes  of  song,  the  living  chief est  fame ! 

On,  on !  Sir  Henri !  'Milia  has  thy  name  !— 

And  on,  Sir  Lacy! — art  thy  angers  tame?" 

And  rising  there  he  cheered  them  on.    They  meet ! 

'Tis  Desperation  veils  the  brow !    Ah,  sweet 

The  name  of  Victory !    Aye,  'tis  death  or  fame ; 

A  lasting  gloom,— a  living,  laureled  name  ! 

They  parry,  thrust,  and  forward  move,  and  back. 

They  thrust,  they  pierce,  and  blood  shall  trail  the  track ! 


122  THE  LADY  OF  JDAEDALE. 

"Tis  o'er!"  and  cheers  rang  loud  upon  the  air  ! 
'Tis  done  !— 'tis  death  !— 'tis  Lacy's  silent  there  ! 
The  crowd  is  rushing  wildly,  steeds  are  flying  !— 
'Tis  Lacy's  last !    The  laureled  knight  is  dying  ! 
Leaves  Glory  in  the  Victor's  crown  !    Graville : 
"And  welcome,  thrice  I  welcome  !    Have  thy  will ; 
The  Maid  is  thine  !"    And  moveless  there  the  crowd, 
In  hush  as  death,  saw  gray-haired  Lord,  and  proud, 
Place  fair  Emilia's  hand  in  Henri's  palm, 
And  ended  thus  the  fray,  the  wild  alarm. 


"And  Henri,  as  the  Try  sting-spot  I  scan, 

The  gray  moss-covered  stone,  the  breeezes  fan, 

The  hird-notes  sound,  the  brooklet  sings  as  yore, 

The  unbidden  tear  will  flow."    " 'Tis  gone  !    No  more  ! 

Thy  father  long  is  dead.    De  Lacy's  name 

Is  half  forgot ;  and  Memory  all  to  claim 

The  scenes  of  Knighthood's  magic  reign.    The  sun 

Is  smiling  in  the  west.    Our  lives  begun 

When  youth  and  beauty  marked  our  form.    'Tis  past. 

No  more  the  sound  of  war-drums  on  the  blast ; 

No  more  a  Lacy— Henri  meet  as  one. 

'Tis  gone,  'tis  past,  'tis  done,  forever  done." 

And  bowed  with  sweet  and  bitter  memories,  turn 

They  back,  retrace  the  path  thro'  wood  and  fern. 

I/EX-VOY. 

My  reader  lost  in  Knightly  charm, 
Adieu  !    A  word  the  least  of  harm, 
Yet  full  of  something  sad,  half  sweet, 
And  said  when  lovers  part.    We  meet, 
Are  gone.    Adieu  the  lingering  word, 
The  last  on  lip,  the  last  that's  heard ; 
And  sweetest  Fancy's  softest  Lay 
Is  thine.    We  met ;  a  night,  a  day. 
And  oceans  sweep  between.    The  bard 
Forgot,  and  others  golden  starred, 
Have  blocked  the  view.    But  such  is  fame, 
A  bauble,  but  a  poet's  claim  ! 
And  now  a  second,  last  adieu, 
May  lady  win  her  lover  true, 

And  lover  win  his  maid, 
And  stars  that  shine  in  bed  of  blue 

Shine  not  their  love  to  fade  ! 


"And  you,  my  naughty  Mabel,  art  the  maid, 

And  1  the  Henri !    E'en  is  waning  fast, 

Our  farmer-homes  the  less  than  castle  grand ; 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  come."    "A  pretty  tale,  John  Elmer." 
To  judge,  not  I.    The  world  alone  shall  say, 
Not  single  critic.    Fame's  a  venturous  game." 


123 


You 


"Oh,  Memory !  sweet  and  sad  thy  reign  did  borrow 

Sweetness  and  sadness.— Yet  away.— Thy  speed, 

Wild  Master  !    Louder  cries  are  breaking  now ! 

The  chaise  is  turned  !    Good  heavens  !  my  Mabel  Martin  ! 

Oh,  Mabel,  are  you  hurt  ?"    "John  Elmer  ! 

And  not  among  the  dead  !    'Twere  joy  to  die — " 

"No  !  no  !  my  Mabel  Martin.    Live  and  be 

My  bride  !"    Her  injuries  slight,  a  wedding  day 

Soon  dawned,  and  Mabel  Martin  took  the  name 

That  parent's  heart  had  thought  to  be  of  fame. 


THE  FALLEN  MAPLES. 


Lament,  lament,  ye  poet's  all, 

My  maple  trees  are  dead, 
By  vandal  hands  at  mammon's  call, 

And  all  their  fragrance  fled ; 
Twice  three  there  were  in  stately  grace 

Beside  my  prison  wall, 
But  vacant  now  their  lovely  place, 

For  money  made  them  fall. 

Oh  shame  !  oh  shame  !  that  nature's  beauty 

Should  sacrifice  be  made, 
And  basely  seem  a  woodman's  duty 

To  rob  their  mellow  shade, 
That  Phoabus-god  might  shimmer  there, 

Tho'  bird  should  never  call ; 
But  ah  my  trees  once  fresh  and  fair, 

'Twas  money  made  you  fall ! 

'Tis  wintertime,  and  snows  are  round, 

No  birds  to  carol  here, 
But  when  the  grass  shall  grace  the  ground, 

And  they  shall  re-appear, 
How  sad  the  thrush,  the  blackbird's  note, 

The  robin  in  her  call, 
How  sad  the  note  from  many  a  throat 

Where  money  caused  their  fall. 

Oh,  Money  !  Money  !  why  should  you 

So  curse  my  fragrant  shade  ? 
Will  lucre's  gain  the  joy  renew 

My  maples  sweetly  made  ? 
Look  now  with  me  on  vacant  spot, 

And  tell  me  if  with  all, 
Their  beauty  should  have  been  forgot, 

And  money  cause  their  fall. 
124 


THE  FALLEN  MAPLES.  125 

The  spring  will  come,  and  flowers  bloom, 

The  poet's  time  return, 
And  then  my  trees  more  true  your  doom 

Will  show  in  eyes  that  learn 
How  sweet  your  shade  'neath  Phoabus'  rays, 

When  noontide  bird  shall  call, 
And  men  shall  smoke  and  boys  shall  play 

Where  money  caused  your  fall. 

The  bridge  of  sighs  that  spans  the  mills, 

With  laughing  river  near, 
No  more  shall  be  the  haunt  that  fills 

My  heart  with  homely  cheer, 
For  gone  the  trees  that  met  my  view, 

While,  stolen  moments  all, 
I  gazed  in  sky  where  hue  on  hue 

Saw  money  cause  their  fall. 

No  prison  grim  or  palace  grand 

Made  bridge  a  bridge  of  sighs, 
'Twas  longing  here  where  skies  expand, 

And  mountains  grimly  rise, 
For  nature's  walks  and  meadows  green, 

Where  redbreast  sweetly  call, 
But  come  not  near  my  maple  scene, 

For  money  caused  their  fall. 

Three  weepers  left  to  mark  the  place 

Where  once  were  greenly  growing 
My  maple  trees  with  shadeful  face, 

With  numbers  softly  flowing 
From  many  a  throat  of  lively  cheer, 

Or  songful  birds  a-calling, 
From  spray  to  spray  in  notes  so  clear, 

Ere  vandal  axe  was  falling.     . 

Man's  duller  brain  has  robbed  the  yard 

Of  more  than  half  its  glory, 
And  weeping  maid  and  weeping  bard 

Shall  tell  the  doleful  story ; 
And  trio  trees  shall  stand  in  gloom, 

And  waving  over  all, 
Proclaim  their  fate,  their  early  doom, 

How  money  caused  their  fall. 

When  songful  bird  in  spring  shall  come 

To  court  my  maple  shade, 
Will  not  their  merriest  song  be  dumb  ? 

And  all  their  wild  notes  fade  ? 


126  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  nest  of  brush,  all  will  it  be 

Among  my  maples  tall  ? 
Will  e'er  again  it  grace  the  tree 

That  money  caused  to  fall  ? 

Will  mother-bird  dare  fix  her  nest 

In  maples  weeping  there  ? 
On  crooked  spray  tho'  verdure  drest 

The  scene  as  rich  and  rare, 
And  tempting  made  the  mellow  shade 

To  lark,  to  thrush,  and  all, 
And  feel  these  trees  may  never  fade, 

Or  money  cause  their  fall  ? 

The  snowbird's  song  in  requiem  note 

In  'Rora's  sheening  glory, 
Descends  my  ear  from  saddened  throat 

And  mournful  sings  the  story 
But  ah  the  songs  in  winter's  reign, 

Or  springtime  softer  falling, 
Cannot  restore  to  me  again 

What  money's  been  despoiling! 


IN  THE  DELL. 


i. 

In  the  dell  the  flowers  are  blooming, 
O'er  the  stream  the  blossoms  hang ; 

And  the  bees  are  humming  sweetly 
Where  the  songsters  lately  sang. 

ii. 
Flowers  are  blooming  by  the  stream-side, 

Lilies  nod  against  the  breeze ; 
And  a  perfect  shower  of  flowers 

Hang  in  beauty  from  the  trees. 

in. 
Grasses  line  the  winding  water, 

Cherry-blossoms  nod  above ; 
Making  just  a  merry  tryst-shad  9 

For  a  maid  to  fall  in  love. 

IV. 

There  reflected  from  the  mirror, 
Made  from  out  the  glassy  stream, 


IX   THE   BELL. 


I KNE  W  NOT  WH T.  1 27 

Shine  the  weeds  and  flowers  together, 
Like  some  fairy's  tangled  dreain. 

v. 
Bees  are  all  about  the  flowerets, 

Bees  are  winging  o'er  the  tide ; 
Here  is  where  a  lovely  poet 

Should  encrown  his  lovelier  bride. 

VI. 

Just  above  the  glassy  water 

See  that  slowly  winging  bee, 
And  the  backward  reaching  darkness 

O'er  the  water  'neath  the  tree. 

VII. 

What  a  rare  and  lovely  picture, 

What  a  cool  and  precious  scene ; 
Trees  and  bees  and  sparkling  water, 

With  the  grasses  growing  green ! 

VIII. 

Here  with  book  and  rarest  culture, 

In  the  mellow  twilight  hour, 
What  a  lovely  little  Eden 

For  a  reader's  rarest  bower ! 

IX. 

With  the  cool  airs  all  about  you, 

And  the  murmur  of  the  tide ; 
And  the  over-arching  treetops 

Hanging  o'er  the  waters  wide. 


I  KNEW  NOT  WHY. 

I  loved  her  then,  I  knew  not  why; 
'Twas  easiest  thing  to  love  and  sigh, 
Angel  her  form  and  stars  her  eye, 
A  maid  of  realms  that  have  no  shade, 
Where  twinkling  stars  and  waters  played 

With  amorous  thing  of  thought, 
And  smiling  love  and  perfect  maid 

In  other's  arms  were  caught. 

We  danced  the  mazy  dance  of  love, 
That  came  of  chance  down  from  above, 
Defying  the  world  and  warf ul  Jove, 


128  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALK 

And  battle's  din  and  woes  of  war ; 
For  love  the  king  with  greater  law, 

Was  master  of  the  hour, 
And  heeded  not  the  parson's  saw 

That  fell  with  potent  power. 

Tho'  "love  and  life  were  all  a  dream," 
We  'rayed  our  boat  with  garlands  green, 
And  sweetly  sailed  the  honeyed  stream, 
That  wound  as  wild  as  natural  brook, 
A  shepherd's  thoughts  upon  his  crook, 

Ambition's  flights  the  while, 
A  varied  mirror  where  to  look 

For  beauty's  matchless  smile. 

The  earth,  the  air,  the  sea,  the  sky, 
The  dells  "where  breezes  pause  and  die," 
And  perfect  love  might  harmless  lie, 
Soft  sailed  our  love  in  ship  of  dreams, 
No  helm  did  need,  for  waveless  streams 

Were  charmed  by  Cupid's  art, 
And  silvery  routes  in  moonlight  sheens 

Before  the  prow  did  part. 

Our  ship  sailed  on  the  glassy  sea, 
As  grand  a  ship  as  ship  could  be ; 
The  crew  was  gone  and  love  was  free, 
And  love  and  life  were  on  the  deck, 
Not  any  shade  the  ray  to  fleck, 

Or  doubt  with  cursef ul  vow ; 
And  Cupid  there  a  rosy  speck, 

Stood  dancing  on  the  prow. 

SONG  OF  EROS. 

Eros  the  steersman  of  the  ship, 

With  laughter  in  his  looks, 
Smiled  at  the  moon,  its  nether  lip 

That  arched  in  mellow  crooks, 
And  in  a  voice  of  rosy  calm : 

"'As  sure  as  horn6d  moon, 
The  maid  shall  be  an  endless  charm, 

And  lure  you  to  your  doom. 

"The  priest  will  come  with  reverend  smile 

And  tie  you  in  a  knot, 
And  all  the  earth  shall  be  the  while 

A  mist,  a  thing  forgot ; 


A  PR  A  TEE  FOE  THE  NA  TION.  129 

Your  steps  will  fall  on  downy  beds, 

And  streets  of  sanded  gold, 
And  pass  your  days  like  flower  that  sheds 

Its  dew  upon  the  wold. 

"Your  mind  shall  be  the  Cupid  then 

To  ray  or  gloom  your  sky, 
The  years  will  go,  and  scenes  of  men 

Shall  pass  before  your  eye ; 
But  love  as  sweet  as  ever  found 

Shall  come  at  beck  of  will, 
And  wreathe  your  lives  in  garlands  round 

That  grace  the  muses'  hill. 

"The  earth  shall  take  the  hue  of  love, 

And  Eden  be  your  home, 
If  mind  shall  be  of  light  above 

That  rays  the  heavenly  dome." 
And  when  the  Harp  of  Life  was  swept 

With  soft  and  tremulous  hands,    • 
The  living  truth  upon  us  crept, 

And  fell  in  golden  sands. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  NATION. 

Mother  Mary,  soft  and  sweetly, 
Hear,  oh  hear  my  evening  prayer, 

Accents  soft  and  accents  meekly 
Praying  for  thy  guardian  care. 

Ours  is  now  a  mighty  nation, 
Born  of  blood,  and  war,  and  strife ; 

In  thy  love  and  adoration 
Crown  us  with  the  crown  of  life. 

Hear  my  prayer  as  one  who  prayeth. 

From  the  heart  and  heart  alone ; 
Where  the  higher  feeling  swayeth, 

And  the  light  of  God  has  shone. 

Teach  our  nation  in  her  glory 
Higher  thoughts  and  higher  aims 

That  the  annals  of  her  story 
Shine  with  time's  immortal  names. 

May  the  parties  in  their  powers 
Hold  their  country  and  their  God 

Dearer  than  the  laurel  flowers 
Blooming  but  to  deck  a  lord. 


130  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Crown  with  wisdom  hands  that  guide  us, 
And  the  love  that  sways  the  world, 

That  110  power  shall  e'er  divide  us,  — 
Haze  the  Stars  and  Stripes  unfurled. 

Shed  the  peace  that  comes  of  praying 
In  a  language  of  the  heart, 

And  the  nation's  name  arraying 
With  a  glory  shorn  of  art. 

May  our  ruler  in  his  power 
Rule  in  love  and  rule  in  peace, 

That  the  emblem  olive  flower 
'Ray  his  brow,  the  nation's  Chief  ! 

May  the  Senate  in  its  greatness 
Win  the  plaudits  of  the  land, 

Reigning  there  in  wisdom  mateless,  — 
Wielding  power  with  humblest 


May  the  people  of  the  nation 
Teach  the  men  that  hold  the  helm, 

Honest  aim  shall  win  ovation, 
Not  the  frauds  that  overwhelm. 

Give  us  peace  if  we're  deserving, 
Give  us  love  that  wins  a  crown  ; 

Give  us  strength  in  truth  unswerving, 
Shed  thy  choicest  blessing  down. 

Mother  Mary,  soft  and  sweetly, 
Hear,  oh  hear  my  even  ing  prayer, 

Accents  soft  and  accents  meekly 
Praying  for  thy  guardian  care. 


ROBERT  BURNS  AND  HIS  HIGHLAND 

MARY. 

i. 

Thou  reader  of  the  classic  muse, 
Wilt  turn  aside  the  tale  peruse, 

That  darks  with  woe  rny  pages? 
Then  hie  with  me  'neath  hawthorn  shade, 
Where  minstrel  bards  have  sweeter  played 

In  far  remoter  ages, 
And  soft  I'll  sing  my  Scottish  lay 

As  moves  the  world  along, 
And  take  you  where  the  moonbeams  play, 

And  waters  chime  in  song, 
By  purling  streams  and  dewy  meads, 
Where  sheperds  play  their  oaton  reeds, 

And  life  glides  smoothly  on. 

2. 

Oh  list  the  tale  so  woeful  sweet, 

So  woeful  sweet  and  tender, 
Of  maid  and  youth  that  once  did  meet 

With  love  their  choice  defender ; 
"  'Mid  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon," 

In  sweetest  love  they  wandered, 
The  birds  sang  then  in  softest  croon, 

While  love  the  lovers  pondered. 

3. 

Now  hand  in  hand  o'er  bank  and  brae, 
Where  purling  Doon  gave  back  the  ray, 
And  sweetest  bird  of  softest  lay 
Piped  on  the  bush,  on  neighboring  spray, 
Slow  roamed  this  youth  and  blue-eyed  maid, 
In  evening's  soft  advancing  shade, 
In  sweetest  love  that  ever  strayed 
From  heart  to  heart  that  will  not  fade. 

4. 

The  moon  fell  soft  upon  their  love, 
And  nestled  maid  as  snowy  dove, 
And  lowly  beat  their  hearts, 

131 


132  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

His  love  shone  soft  from  azure  eyes, 
And  hers  in  way  that  ever  tries 

In  sweetly  woeful  arts, 
"The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray," 

As  soft  they  tripped  along, 
No  nightingale  in  sweetest  lay 

E'er  sang  so  merry  song. 

5. 
'Twas  poet's  dream  in  even's  air, 

So  soft  a  tale  they  told, 
And  modest  maid  so  sweet  and  fair, 

The  lover  soft  did  fold ; 
Nor  damp  nor  dew  the  lovers  knew 

As  sped  the  hour  away, 
But  many  were  the  kisses  true 

That  broke  on  bank  and  brae. 

6. 

The  scene  was  one  of  many  spent 
'Neath  tree  and  bush  and  hawthorn  bent, 
And  ne'er  was  love  more  truly  sent, 
And  ne'er  were  hearts  more  truly  blent 
As  on  that  time  the  god  of  love 

With  bow  so  artless  bent, 
Winged  from  his  string  the  gem  above 

That  gave  them  such  content. 

7. 
No  scenes  that  true  were  made  for  love 

But  wandered  bard  with  lovely  muse, 
No  angel  in  the  sky  above 

Had  wish  the  love-scene  to  refuse ; 
'Twas  Doon  or  Ayr  or  pebbled  brook, 

That  took  their  fancy  as  they  roamed, 
Or  'neath  some  tree  with  arching  crook, 

While  waters  sweet  a-low  them  foamed. 

8. 
And  now  by  brookside's  cooling  shade 

The  lovers  met  at  last, 
And  sweetly  then  the  moonbeams  played 

Where  sighing  stream  went  past ; 
And  now  my  maid  of  later  love, 

No  scene  was  e'er  so  sad,  so  sweet, 
And  stars  that  shone  so  pale  above 

Seemed  glad  the  lovers  here  did  meet. 

9. 
On  either  side  the  winding  brook 

Stood  Highland  maid  and  lover, 


EOBEET  BURNS  AND  HIS  HIGHLAND  MARY.          133 

And  in  their  hand  the  golden  Book 

Was  held  with  golden  cover ; 
'Twas  second  Sunday  in  sweet  May 

When  flowers  were  gaily  blooming, 
And  never  seemed  a  sadder  day 

'Neath  braes  so  grandly  looming. 

10. 
Their  vows  were  sweet  yet  sadly  tender 

As  laved  their  hands  the  limpid  stream ; 
'Twas  Ayrshire  bard  that  would  defend  her,— 

She  was  his  sweet  poetic  dream ! 
Holding  the  Bible  still  between  them, 

And  reaching  o'er  the  mimic  tide, 
She  felt  no  power  that  came  between  them 

Would  make  her  less  than  Robert's  bride. 

11. 
"Oh,  Mary!  Mary!  Highland  Mary ! 

Now  soon  you'll  be  my  wedded  bride, 
Love'll  ever  guard  you,  Highland  Mary, 

While  Robert  lingers  by  your  side!" 
And  sweet  the  answer,  gentle  reader, 

That  Highland  maid  did  answer  there, 
For  he  could  ever  sweetly  lead  her, 

Tho'  she  were  "fair  and  faultless  fair." 

12. 
The  bibles  then  were  passed  between, 

The  lovers  softly  sighing, 
And  never  was  more  solemn  scene 

Then  this  one  slowly  dying ; 
For  there  to  say  their  last  adieu 

Had  met  these  lovers  tender, 
The  stars  shone  soft  in  bed  of  blue, 

But  nothing  could  transcend  her. 

13. 
Their  words  were  sweet  yet  sadly  tender 

As  by  the  brook  they  broke  apart, 
But  lover-blessings  did  attend  her, 

Altho*  they  well-nigh  broke  her  heart ; 
And  there,  my  reader,  by  the  stream-tide, 

Where  sighing  trees  o'erhung  the  shore, 
He  parted  with  his  Highland  dream-bride, 

His  Highland  dream-bride  evermore ! 

14. 

The  sacred  marriage  was  deferred, 
The  summer  sped  away, 


134  THE  LAD  T  OF  DARDALE. 

But  still  there  sang  no  sweeter  bird 
Than  Ayrshire  bard  of  lay ; 

But  Mary's  home  was  Highland 
Above  the  Lowland  braes, 

Though  sweeter  was  her  Highland, 
'Twas  Lowland  claimed  her  gaze. 

15. 

But  Martinmas  not  far  away, 
Sweet  Highland  lass  would  make  her  stay 
As  dairy-maid  in  Glasgow  home, 
And  there  in  seeming  all  alone, 
Await  her  parents'  last  reply 

As  time  moved  slow  along, 
Tho'  dimmed  the  tear  her  sweet  blue  eye, 

And  stilled  her  heartfelt  song. 

16. 
Her  brother  now  would  soon  away 

Where  Greenock  waves  were  playing, 
And  Highland  maid  of  Lowland  lay, 
Would  hie  where  love  was  staying ; 
For  strange  parental  law 
Had  kept  the  two  apart, 
And  love's  more  artless  war 
Could  never  melt  their  heart. 

17. 

But  Highland  maid  from  Firth  of  Clyde 
Would  see  her  Robert  by  her  side, 
She  was  his  sweet,  his  promised  bride, 
And  never  had  their  troth  denied, 
Altho*  their  lives  were  forced  apart 

By  cruel  law  of  earth, 
And  broken  was  her  hoping  heart, 

And  stilled  her  artless  mirth. 

18. 

A  fever  came ;  her  brother  died, 
But  Mary  e'er  was  by  his  side 
As  though  she  were  his  wedded  bride, 
And  could  not  see  the  truth  denied ; 
And  there  as  high  the  fever  burned 

She  calmly  sat  that  sacred  hour, 
Tho'  sadly  then  for  love  she  yearned 

Even  in  presence  of  that  Power. 

19. 

But  oh,  my  maid,  of  sweet  Dunoon ! 
Thy  Robert  more  shall  see  thee  not, 


FLATEOCK.  135 


No  more  shall  grove  beneath  the  moon 
E'er  be  thy  happy  trysting-spot ; 

For  soon,  too  soon  thy  day  will  be 
Hid  in  eternal  night, 

And  the  bard  Eobert  shall  be  free 
To  wed  where'r   he  like ! 

20. 
This  tender  nurse  the  fever  took, 

And  drooped  as  drooped  her  brother, 
A  few  short  days  and  Ayrshire  brook 

The  dirge  soft  sang  her  lover ; 
And  now  nor  earth  nor  loved  scene  fair 

Could  patience  teach  this  lover, 
And  loud  he  wailed  by  winding  Ayr, 

Around  dear  scenes  did  hover ! 


FLAT  ROCK. 

We  strayed  beside  the  merry  stream 

Where  lily  pale  was  growing, 
My  love  and  I  as  in  a  dream, 

Our  hearts  with  joy  o'erflowing ; 
And  as  we  traced  the^dewy  way 

'Neath  blackbirds  gaily  flying, 
We  learned  a  tale  old  Truth  will  say, 

That  love  is  never  dying. 

From  steep  to  steep,  from  hill  to  hill, 

In  even  softly  roaming, 
We  tripped  along  where  many  a  rill 

To  river-side  was  going ; 
But  as  we  strayed  in  even's  balm, 

Where  oars  were  softly  plying, 
We  could  but  feel  in  nature's  charm, 

That  love  is  never  dying. 

We  clomb  the  hill  where  name  on  name 

In  roughest  beauty  showing, 
Told  well  that  love  in  truest  flame 

In  sculptured  name  was  flowing ; 
For  love  will  make  a  sculptor's  son 

Of  many  a  swain  that's  sighing, 
And  though  the  lines  as  crooked  run, 

Prove  love  is  never  dying. 


136  THE  LAD  Y  OF  SARD  ALE. 

This  meeting-stone  of  lovers  dead, 

Shone  mellow  in  the  gloaming, 
This  trysting-rock  where  love  had  plea 

While  stream  a-low  was  foaming ; 
And  proved  as  e'er  to  maiden  fair, 

Or  lover  fondly  sighing, 
That  though  their  lives  were  i\\\\  of  care, 

True  love  is  never  dying. 

As  side  by  side  on  famous  stone, 

We  sat  in  even's  glooming 
And  looked  as  love  may  look  alone, 

And  saw  the  village  looming, 
We  felt  that  where  the  churchtop  spire 

Against  the  sky  was  lying, 
Sweet  Eros-god  might  strike  his  lyre 

To  notes  of  love  undying. 

'•Twas  western  light  that  kenned  of  love, 

And  Luna  sweetly  shining, 
Was  witness  fair  this  turtle-dove 

In  lovers  most  confining, 
Had  ruled  the  world  since  moon  arose, 

And  proved  'neath  cloudlets  flying, 
That  though  the  land  were  full  of  woes, 

True  love  is  never  dying. 

Tho'  Highland  maid  with  love  had  strayed 

'Mid  hanks  and  braes  a-looming, 
'Twas  Luna  made  and  soft  arrayed 

The  tryst  where  love  was  blooming ; 
'Neath  Luna's  orb  more  tales  are  told 

By  swain  or  courtiers  sighing, 
Than  Sol-god  knows  in  rays  of  gold, 

But  love  is  never  dying. 

While  there  we  sat  the  moon  clomb  high 

As  in  that  ancient  rhyming,* 
But  moon  and  star  and  dappled  sky, 

Seemed  love  in  sweetest  chiming, 
And  proving  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

Tho'  empires  low  were  lying, 
When  once  'tis  love  to  lord  or  swain, 

It's  never,  never  dying. 

These  thoughts  of  love  went  thro'  my  brain, 
As  evening  shadows  fainting, 

Left  moonlight  pale  in  silent  reign, 
A  Raphael's  mellow  painting ; 
*The  Ancient  Mariner. 


FLAT  ROCK  137 

And  as  the  town  all  silent  lay, 

With  dusky  night-birds  flying, 
I  felt  young  love  the  mightiest  sway, 

And  never,  never  dying. 

And  those  that  state  that  love  to  hate 

In  hearts  is  frequent  turning, 
Find  single  love  without  its  mate, 

And  riot  the  love  of  yearning ; 
Go  look  in  Burns  and  songs  of  Moore, 

And  there  in  patient  trying, 
Scan  page  on  page  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Find  truest  love  that's  dying. 

For  oh,  my  maid !  when  once  true  love 

Your  maiden  sleep  is  stealing, 
No  charm  of  earth  or  sky  above, 

Can  rob  you  of  the  feeling ; 
The  bard  that  sings  of  changing  love, 

In  liking  has  been  sighing, 
And  cannot  know  this  pearl  above 

Is  never,  never  dying. 

Oh  magi,  sage,  oh  lord  and  page, 

In  any  clime  tho'  living, 
If  love  you've  felt  like  honest  sage, 

Please  tell  me  if  in  giving, 
The  god  of  love  could  take  it  back, 

And  cure  you  of  your  sighing ; — 
He  wings  the  dart,  but  ah  does  lack 

The  power  to  make  it  dying ! 

A  line  to  those  that  do  not  know, 

It  is  the  sweetest  feeling, 
A  line  to  those  that  feel  no  woe, 

'Tis  oft  the  robber  stealing 
Your  peace  of  mind,  your  joy  of  heart, 

With  grieving,  laughing,  crying ;       • 
A  line  to  those  that  bear  the  dart, 

True  love  is  never  dying. 

The  years  are  flown  and  I  may  moan 

Beside  the  willows  weeping, 
For  there  in  death's  eternal  home 

My  darling's  lowly  sleeping ; 
But  fairest  maid  and  lover  true, 

My  heart  for  her  is  sighing, 
For  time  my  love  does  e'er  renew, 

And  proves  it  never  dying. 


138  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

Oh  why  does  man  think  love  will  fade, 

And  vanish  with  the  morning ! 
Is  this  the  love  of  virgin  maid  ? 

The  love  of  manhood  dawning  ? 
Is  this  the  love  that  Eden  saw  ? 

No,  no !  my  maid  a-sighing, 
'Twas  truest  love,  a  heavenly  law, 

And's  never,  never  dying ! 


SUGAR  RIVER. 

Flow  on  sweet  stream,  the  lilies  bloom 

And  nod  above  thy  wave, 
The  tangled  mosses  shed  a  gloom 

As  faces  o'er  a  grave ; 
The  flowers  are  sweet  upon  thy  banks 

As  flowers  above  the  dead, 
Thy  twirling  sprays  the  willow  danks 

That  bows  o'er  sweetness  fled. 

The  brown  bird,  thrush  is  singing  there 

As  o'er  a  fledgling  lost, 
And  yet  a  scene  that  love  might  share, 

A  soul  that's  tempest  tost ; 
A  scene  as  sweet  as  May  days  knew, 

Now  sere  and  autumn  hued, 
And  memory  paints  the  vanished  view 

As  life  that  death  has  dewed. 

The  hills  are  high  upon  thy  shores, 

The  sun  is  loitering  there, 
The  stream  that  steals  a  melody  pours 

Of  other  scenes  as  fair. 
The  rose  that  blooms  blooms  o'er  a  grave 

Of  cousin  roses  dead, 
For  life  and  death  are  wave  with  wave, 

They  mingle,  part,  and  wed. 

And  yet  thy  waters  sing  as  yore, 

Thy  tone  as  free  and  light, 
Tho'  brush  and  tree  should  bow  the  shore 

For  thing  beyond  the  sight. 
His  boat  has  bowed  thy  yellow  wave, 

Another  wave  has  come, 
The  boat  is  there,  the  willowed  grave 

Has  told  another  home. 


SUGAR  E1VEE.  139 

His  hands  are  crossed  behind  his  back, 

He  pauses,  turning  oft, 
His  foot  has  pressed  the  sanded  track, 

Another  once  as  soft. 
The  flowers  of  May  are  sweet  around, 

The  song  of  bird  and  stream ; 
A  slab  is  white  above  his  mound, 

Unnatural  starlights  gleam. 

Their  walks  had  been  as  twin  with  twin, 

A  cultured  mind  had  wed, 
And  never  flower,  phase  or  whim, 

But  reason  reason  led ; 
For  highest  culture  culture  claims, 

And  scholars  native  born, 
Nature  in  all  her  various  reigns 

Had  charmed  them  eve  and  morn. 

The  river's  banks  had  known  their  tread, 

The  birds  had  known  their  voice, 
The  lower  passions  never  led, 

For  culture  culture's  choice. 
The  worm  had  turned  their  step  aside 

A  lesser  mind  had  crushed, 
Their  tones  as  soft  as  woo  a  bride, 

The  tone  a  babe  has  hushed. 

The  world  had  jarred  upon  their  mind, 

A  harshness  in  its  tone ; 
'Twas  here  alone  the  thought  could  find 

A  melody  bards  may  own. 
The  glistening  path  where  weeds  had  clung, 

And  tumbled  brushes  lay, 
Was  hidden  now,  but  yet  there  rung 

Tones  of  an  autumned  May. 

Yet  flow,  sweet  stream,  thy  chime  has  won 

A  thousand  memories, 
Thy  wave  that  breaks  the  lingering  sun, 

Thy  flower  that  blooms  and  dies. 
'Twas  here  they  walked,  the  crowd  had  smiled 

Such  oddness  in  their  ways, 
And  yet  the  rosebud  undefiled, 

Their  naturalness  displays. 

The  trifling  curve  of  flower  and  stem 

Had  won  their  wedded  thought, 
Shall  harsher  ones  such  bards  condemn 

Where  Nature  truer  taught? 


140  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

The  greatest  minds  see  smallest  things, 

A  bud  a  thousand  tales, 
A  myriad  beauty  magic  clings, 

A  lesser  eye  it  veils. 

And  thought-wed  by  thy  winding  stream, 

Companion  wandered  far, 
The  sun  has  gone,  the  world,  a  gleam 

Is  soft  from  signal  star. 
The  tide  is  sluggish  at  his  feet, 

The  night  is  silent  there, 
As  life  and  death  the  shadows  meet, 

Thy  stones  are  cold  and  bare. 

/ 
The  stream  is  there,  the  path,  the  hill, 

The  tree,  the  bush,  the  sky, 
And  yet  a  statue  white  and  still 

In  marvelous  melody, 
Nor  sees  nor  path,  nor  hill,  nor  stream, 

The  moon  that  rides  the  wave, 
But  dimly  through  a  tangled  dream 

A  willow  curtained  grave ! 


BENEATH  THE  MAPLES. 

"May  I  come  in,  my  pretty  maid, 
And  pass  an  hour  beneath  the  shade  ?" 
"Oh  yes,  fond  sir,  the  day  is  hot, 
And  'neath  the  maples  is  the  spot 
To  cool  the  brow  and  soothe  the  mind, 
If  such  the  gentleman  would  find." 
"It  is  indeed,  for  tho'  my  heart 
At  every  maiden  elf  should  start, 
I  still  may  say,  and  all  too  true, 
I  never  wooed  beneath  the  blue." 
"Ah  ha,  a  score  and  ten,  or  more, 
Of  merry  years  have  left  their  store 
Upon  your  brow,  and  if  a  maid 
To  living  truth  her  homage  paid, 
She  might  prefer  to  guess  it  true 
That  you  are  more  than  thirty-two." 
"You  guess  the  riddle,  I  am  old; 
But  never  marriage  bell  has  told 
That  e'er  I  wed  a  maid  or  lass, 
Tho'  many  a  one  did  come  and  pass!" 


BENEATH  THE  MAPLES.  HI 

"And  do  you  think,  for  such  is  true, 
That  somewhere  'neath  the  bended  blue 
A  maid  is  shaped,  and  all  for  you?" 
"A  prophetess,  my  little  maid ; 
And  yet  I  know  I'm  half  afraid 
That  such  has  been,  and  is  to  be ; 
But  love  is  such  a  god  to  flee, 
That  many  a  youth  has  fished  in  vain 
In  trying  to  catch  the  little  swain." 
"The  pretty  elf  is  never  caught 
By  him  who  seeks  where  he  is  not, , 
For  love  is  wayward,  comes  to  light 
Where  least  you  hoped  to  find  the  wight." 


"Yes,  thirty-two,  but  ten  have  gone 
Since  bells  rang  out  our  wedding  morn, 
And  you  remember  'neath  the  shade 
How  day's  respects  to  e'en  were  paid, 
And  how  the  night  came  stealing  on, 
And  fell  a  voice :  'As  I  am  born ! 
My  Lucy's  playing  Cupid  pranks, 
While  flowers  are  blooming  on  the  banks.' 
You  stole  away  but  love  had  found  you, 
With  rosy  garlands  there  he  bound  you." 
"Yes,  Lucy,  and  the  earth  was  changed, 
And  I  was  so,  so  disarranged, 
That  sleep  wed  love,  and  love  wed  sleep, 
And,  acrobats,  did  madly  leap 
Across  my  pillow  thro'  the  night—" 
"Till  came  the  priest  and  made  it  right!" 
And  rosebud  mouth  like  petaled  cup, 
For  one  more  kiss  was  there  held  up. 
And  so,  my  reader,  please  take  care 
How  'neath  the  shade  you  linger  there, 
For  love  is  like  the  fire-fly  spark 

That  dazzles  in  the  night, 
He  comes  upon  you  in  the  dark, 

And  binds  you  ere  the  light. 


AMERICA. 


Clime  of  valor  and  of  worth, 

Clime  where  Freedom  found  her  birth, 

Clime  of  glory  and  of  right, 

Thine  the  shores  that  glad  the  sight, 

Thine  the  land  from  sea  to  sea 

Claiming  natal  Liberty. 

Thine  the  realm  no  serfdom  knows, 
Land  of  justice  and  repose, 
Thine  the  sword  undyed  of  blood, 
Thine  the  soil  where  heroes  stood, 
Fought  for  home  and  native  land, 
Fought  and  died  a  valorous  band. 

Thine  the  soil  where  proudly  rose 
Flag  of  Freedom  o'er  her  foes, 
Valor  won  the  bloody  field, 
Death  alone  that  made  them  yield, 
Few  in  number,  yet  they  won, 
Fame  has  named  them  one  by  one. 

Years  have  mouldered  in  the  dust 
Soldier,  gun,  and  sword  of  rust, 
Steed  and  rider,  cannon,  all ; 
Vainly,  vainly  did  they  fall  ? 
Years  have  gone,  their  fame  as  bright, 
Tarnished  not  by  spot  or  blight. 

Struck  for  right  and  not  for  fame, 
Heroes'  bays  that  twine  their  name, 
Heroes'  gra~«es  that  hold  their  clay, 
Time  has  swept,  and  e'en  decay ; 
Vainly,  vainly  o'er  their  tomb, 
Flowers  there  that  freshly  bloom. 

Theirs  the  glory  and  the  fame, 
We  the  heirs  that  love  their  name, 
142 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  REBELLION.  143 

We  that  love  the  land  they  won, 
We  that  "nobly,  nobly  done ! 
Heroes  born  and  heroes  died ! 
Death  has  laid  them  side  by  side." 

Widows,  fathers,  mothers  gone, 
Freedom's  Nation  then  was  born, 
Freedom's  Flag  that  proudly  waves, 
Floats  above  their  hallowed  graves, 
Waves  o'er  homes  of  peace  and  joy, 
Waves,  and  man  shall  not  destroy. 

Ages  yet  may  fleck  the  bow, 
Deep  in  tides  that  come  and  go 
Hurl  the  shrines  above  the  dead, 
But  till  life  and  death  be  wed, 
Never,  never  from  the  heart 
Heroes',  warriors'  names  shall  part ! 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  REBELLION, 

Hark !  the  sound  of  wild  alarms ! 
Grim  Secession  reared  in  arms ! 
Mothers,  daughters,  orphans  weep, 
Fame  like  theirs  can  never  sleep, 
Heroes  there  Fort  Sumpter  reared, 
Valorous  hearts  that  proudly  cheered. 

Civil  war  the  curse  of  time, 
Darker  woes  no  kingdom's  clime, 
Blood  was  shed  that  Peace  might  reign, 
Loud  the  drum,  the  martial  strain ; 
Kindred  there  'gainst  kindred  foes, 
Blood  of  blood  that  nobly  flows. 

March,  march,  the  heavy  tramp, 
Tentless  field,  the  broken  camp, 
Friends  meet  friends  in  death's  array, 
Cannon  peal,  the  sword  shall  slay, 
Man,  and  steed,  and  riders,  all, 
Fame  like  theirs  shall  never  fail. 

Months  and  years  are  in  their  flight, 
Yet  the  brave  more  bravely  fight, 
Fields  are  red  with  shedded  blood, 
Stars  and  Stripes  in  Southern  mud, 


144  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Foe  and  f  oeman  one  with  one, 
Which  the  Cause  in  right  begun  ? 

Heroes  there,  a  Grant,  a  Lee, 
Jackson,  Hancock;  majesty 
There  of  power  shall  win  the  field, 
Lee,  not  Grant,  the  brave  to  yield, 
Grant,  the  hero  of  the  war, 
Peace  restored,  and  order,  law. 

Right  and  Victory  hand  in  hand, 
Crowned  with  Freedom  all  the  land, 
Crowned  the  Grants  but  not  thQ  Lees, 
Crowned  the  People  with  their  liberties, 
Made  the  Right  and  not  the  Wrong 
Heroes'  claim  in  poets'  song. 

Honor,  glory,  ever  thine, 

Names  that  live,  that  brightly  shine, 

Freedom's  Banner  floats  to-day 

O'er  the  homes  of  Liberty, 

O'er  the  foe,  the  friend,  the  chief, 

Sharers  all  of  Nation's  grief. 

Sharers  all  of  good  that  came 

Thro'  the  dust,  and  smoke,  and  flame, 

Thro'  the  bravest  there  that  fell, 

Hearts  that  throbbed,  that  heard  the  knell 

God  of  Wars  thy  reign  is  o'er, 

Freedom  binds  the  land  once  more. 


ELLSWORTH. 


Crown  him,  bay  him,  he  in  duty 
Left  the  haunts  of  love  and  beauty, 
Left  a  home  where  peace  was  reigning, 
War,  nor  drum,  nor  martial  training, 
All  was  peace  and  quiet  pleasure, 
Love,  the  king,  and  choicest  treasure. 

War's  alarms  were  loudly  sounding 
Heart  of  patriots  madly  bounding, 
Songs  of  valor  then  were  reigning, 
Every  eye  was  wildly  straining, 
Every  tongue  in  martial  numbers, 
Roused  the  bravest  from  their  slumbers. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN.  145 

Roused  the  hero,  warrior,  lover, 
Stars  and  Stripes  that  float  above  her 
Country,  proudly  led  to  battle, 
Gun  and  musket,  rifles  rattle, 
Noise  and  din,  and  wild  commotion, 
Hearts  are  surging  like  the  ocean. 

War  and  wars  are  in  the  nation, 
Steeds  are  flying,  high  of  station, 
Join  the  ranks  that  march  to  glory, 
March  and  march,  but  what  their  story  ? 
Mad  repulse,  defeat,  and  rally, 
Dead  they  lie  in  vale  and  valley ! 

Dead  on  hilltop,  scorching  mountain, 
Blood  that  bubbles  like  the  fountain, 
Slave's  and  freeman's  mingle  flowing, 
Warriors  there  their  trumps  are  blowing, 
Life  and  death  are  mingled  madly, 
Dying  there,  but  ah,  how  sadly ! 

Battle  rages,  Ellsworth  staggers, 
Air  is  pierced  by  thousand  daggers, 
Muskets  ringing,  cannon  roaring, 
Never  man  a  truce  imploring, 
Dead  and  dying,  dead  and  dying, 
Which  is  foe,  the  smoke  defying. 

Battle  o'er,  but  wounds  to  prove  him 
Hero  brave  that  all  may  love  him, 
Battle  o'er,  but  valiant  power 
Tore  the  flag  from  rebel  tower, 
Crack ! — the  pistol  rang  out  loudly, 
Ellsworth  fell,  but  proudly,  proudly ! 

Rash  the  act,  but  flowers  bay  him, 

Never  rebels  more  shall  slay  him, 

Tears  were  shed  and  songs  were  sung  then. 

Other  pistols  loudly  rung  then, 

Peace  to  both,  their  mingled  ashes 

Soulless  now  to  hoof  that  passes ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN, 

War  is  rampant,  there  to  scan 
Winding  by  the  Occoquan, 
Flag  and  cannon,  steed  and  man, 
Flag  of  beauty,  face  of  tan, 
10 


U6  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Majesty  there  and  grandeur  all, 
Who  that  marches  there  shall  fall, 
Fall  and  fall  for  country's  cause? 

Hark !  the  sound  of  marching  feet, 
Force  with  force  shall  bravely  meet, 
Force  with  force  in  battle's  heat, 
Cannon  roar  shall  cannon  greet, 
Musket  musket  answer  there, 
Who  to  fall?  the  brave  that  dare, 
Brave  that  fought  and  died  for  us! 

Dowell  leads  the  noble  band, 
Voices  ring  in  wild  command, 
July  winds  have  hotly  fanned 
Paling  heroes  where  they  stand, 
Heroes  such  as  Fame  shall  own, 
Own  where  death  has  madly  sown 
Fields  of  blood  with  laureled  dead. 

Lines  are  drawn  in  battle  'ray, 
Bravery  theirs  in  every  fray, 
Bravery  theirs  that  laureled  clay 
Sacred  owns,  and  never  day 
Faded  fames  as  bright  as  these, 
Won  in  wars  for  Nation's  liberties, 
Liberties  to-day  our  own. 

"Fire !"  rang  loudly  on  the  air, 
Thousand  guns  broke  silence  there, 
Thousand  hearts  in  mad  despair, 
Thousand  dead  that  death  did  dare. 
"Charge !"  and  o'er  the  fields  of  dead, 
Fields  where  dearest  blood  was  shed, 
Charged,  and  charged  they  on  the  foe 

"On!  for  justice,  home,  and  right! 
He  that  falls  amid  the  fight, 
Never  juster  saw  the  light, 
Never  scutcheon  shone  more  bright, 
Patriots'  blood  that  nobly  flows, 
Patriots  now  that  meet  the  foes, 
Dead  or  dying,  living,  just!" 

Drums  are  beating,  battle  rages, 
Heroes  there  go  down  the  ages, 
History  names  them  in  her  pages, 
History  bays  them  in  her  pages, 


THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT.  147 

Fresh  their  names,  and  fresh  their  glory, 
"Sung  in  song,  and  told  in  story," 
Told  by  father,  son  to  son. 

Battle  lost,  but  Victory  crowned  them, 
Victory's  laurels  proudly  bound  them, 
War  was  over,  dead  around  them, 
Love  and  peace  that  now  surround  them, 
Love  and  peace  above  the  fallen, 
Death  razed  column  after  column, 
Warring  foes  are  foes  no  longer. 


THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

Proudly  'neath  the  domed  sky 
Shaft  of  Freedom  rears  on  high, 
Name  of  him  who  shaped  her  course, 
Battles  raging  loud  and  hoarse, 
Battles  Independence  won, 
Named  a  Nation  proud  begun. 

Shaft,  thy  names  are  those  of  fame, 
He  the  hero  nations  claim, 
He  that  owns  a  lasting  place, 
Loved  of  all,  of  every  race, 
Famed  when  fame  but  heroes  won, 
Valor  faced  the  fatal  gun. 

Valor  never  equaled  yet, 
Odds  against  them,  yet  are  met, 
British  foemen  bite  the  dust, 
He  that  held  the  noblest  trust, 
He  that  valor  taught  the  brave, 
Honored  made  the  soldier's  grave. 

Seventy-Six !  Ah,  hallowed  date ! 
He  the  soldier  none  shall  mate ; 
We  that  love  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 
Bay  him  hero  of  the  wars, 
Bay  the  Shaft  that  proudly  names 
Such  as  he  that  history  claims. 

Nations  made  their  offerings  free, 
Storied  stone  from  o'er  the  sea, 
Rose  the  pile  in  grandeur,  state, 
Rose,  and  nations  pause  and  wait, 


148  THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

Stone  on  stone  shall  rear  the  pile, 
Age,  nor  time,  nor  wars  defile. 

Never  shaft  a  truer  fame, 

Never  truer  soldier  claim, 

Time  may  fall  to  raze  the  stone,* 

Time  may  raze,  and  yet  alone 

He  shall  live  as  long  as  bloom 

Lands  that  time  holds  yet  their  doom. 

Valor  won  in  worthy  cause, 
Yalor  changeless  as  the  laws 
Nature  owns,  can  never  fade, 
Time  alone  such  heroes  made, 
Time  alone  shall  hold  them  all, 
Last  of  time  ere  they  shall  fall. 

Peace  and  love  to  heroes'  ashes, 
Stronger  where  the  wild  wave  lashes, 
Love  and  peace  be  with  their  shade, 
Glory  theirs  that  cannot  fade, 
Glory  dearest  blood  has  bought  them, 
Home  and  Right  their  bravery  taught  them. 


THE  BATTLE. 

Bhub  a  dub,  dub  across  the  wold, 

Rhub  a  dub,  dub, 

Rhub  a  dub,  dub ; 

I  see  them  marching  brave  and  bold, 
Rhub  a  dub,  dub,  my  blood  runs  cold ; 
I  hear  the  drum,  the  horn,  the  fife, 
O  madly,  madly'll  rage  the  strife, 
A  heavy  woe's  across  the  sky, 
My  laureled  love !— O  who  shall  die  ? 
March,  march,  the  trampling  feet, 
The  battle  shall  come  with  its  blood  and  its  heat, 
O  maddening  thought !  O  maddening  thought ! 
My  feelings  on  fire  in  a  furnace  are  wrought,— 

Rhub  e  did  e  dub, 

Rhub  e  did  e  dub, 

Rhub  e  did  e,  rhub  e  did  e,  dub,  dub,  dub ; 
And  the  settled  tramp  and  the  bray  of  the  drum, 
A  dirge  in  my  ear  shall  become,  has  become ! 
My  lover  will  shine  in  the  murderous  fray, 
My  love  that  has  armed  him  will  arm  him  to-day, 


THE  BATTLE.  149 

He  sees  my  form  on  the  craggy  height, 
He  waves  his  plumes  where  victory  blooms, 

Yet  a  gloom  has  palled  like  the  pall  of  a  night, 
And  an  ocean  is  surging  of  a  thousand  tombs, 

A  thousand  tombs  on  my  maddening  sight. 

I  seize  the  axe  and  the  sword  of  fray, 

The  laureled  sword  for  many  a  day, 

A  hero  in  heart  as  well  as  they, 

And  Joan  of  Arc  my  horn  shall  bray, 

Sounding  victory,  victory,  victory ! 

SONG. 
"O  maiden  fair,  O  maiden  fair!" 

He  sang,  and  he  sang  to  me, 
"My  love  your  love  will  ever  share, 

And  crown  the  field  with  victory!" 
And  he  left  me  there  in  the  barren  air, 

With  a  kiss  and  a  sweet  good-by, 
And  I  in  tears  now  curse  the  spears, 

The  hand  that  makes  him  die ! 

The  sun  is  slanting  o'er  the  bloodless  wold, 

The  day  is  waning  fold  on  folfl, 

And  now  from  the  side  of  a  craggy  mount, 

As  many  spears  as  a  maid  may  count, 

An  army  is  whirling  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 

The  band,  the  foe,  that  spear  and  thrust 

Shall  mow  as  the  grass  that  grows  by  the  stream, 

And  to  morrows  that  wake  shall  seem  but  a  dream ; 

And  madder  the  drum  with  the  mingled  fife, 

The  horn  and  the  trump  are  mad  in  the  strife, 

Commotion,  excitement,  are  wild  on  the  wind, 

And  the  whir  and  the  rush  like  an  army  gone  blind 

Fall  mad  on  my  gaze,  and  the  fiery  blaze 

Of  the  scorching  sun  pours  down ; 
And  rhub  a  dub,  dub,  and  rhub  a  dub,  dub, 

The  groans  and  the  spear-shocks  drown ! 

SONG. 
"O  maiden  fair,  O  maiden  fair!" 

He  sang,  and  he  sang  to  me, 
"My  love  your  love  will  ever  share, 

And  crown  the  field  with  victory ! 
I  win  my  spurs,  and  I  win  my  fame, 

And  I  claim  you  bride  of  brides, 
A  soldier-lover  that  soon  shall  claim 

A  bay  where  the  battle  bides ; 


150  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Have  hope,  have  love,  have  peace  of  heart, 

Have  faith  in  me,  in  me, 
The  battle  shall  come,  hut  never  shall  part 

My  love  from  thee,  from  thee !" 

And  I  stole  like  a  ghost  across  the  wold, 

A  maid  in  love  that  was  brave  and  bold, 

And  from  a  browing  height  that  beetled  the  field, 

I  saw  them  fight,  the  f oemen  yield, 

I  heard  the  trump  that  madly  pealed, 

The  drum,  the  drum,  the  bray  of  the  drum, 

Rhub  a  dub,  dub,  a  dirge  has  become ; 

The  fray  was  mad,  and  long,  and  hot, 

And  many  a  hero  fell  dead  on  the  spot, 

But  my  love  has  never,  has  never  forgot ! 


I  see  them  now  like  a  dream  in  the  years, 
But  fresh  as  the  dew  my  falling  tears, 
The  roar,  the  rush,  the  charge,  the  crash, 
The  paling  heroes  that  love  made  rash, 
The  maddened  steeds,  the  riders,  all, 
A  hero  and  soldier  in  one  did  fall, 
My  lover  was  brave  amid  the  fray, 
Rhub  a  dub,  dub,  they  came  to  slay, 
O  God !  and  they  slew  him  where  he  stood ! 
The  battle  raged  on  like  an  angry  flood ; 

Rhub  e  did  e  dub, 

Rhub  e  did  e  dub, 

Rhub  e  did  e,  rhub  e  did  e,  dub,  dub,  dub, 
Was  knelling,  is  knelling  like  a  knell  from  the  tomb, 
And  the  rose  on  his  breast  had  his  blood  in  its  bloom, 
And  the  gloom  that  settled  like  a  cloud  of  the  night, 
Fell  over  my  love  and  the  field  of  the  fight, 
And  a  ghost  on  the  wold  with  a  nerveless  frame, 
A  song  from  his  lips,  from  his  dead  lips  came : 


"O  maiden  fair,  O  maiden  fair !" 

He  sang,  and  he  sang  to  me, 
"My  love  your  love  will  ever  share, 

And  crown  the  field  with  victory ! 
Tho'    severing  death  shall  come  between 

My  love  and  the  love  of  your  heart, 
The  stars  that  shine  shall  shine  in  your  een, 

Tho'  the  battle  shall  bid  us  to  part, 
A  love  that  shall  die  with  the  flight  of  the  soul 

Is  the  love  of  the  fickle  heart!" 


EVENING. 


EVENING.  151 


And  a  gnome  of  the  night  I  winged  my  flight, 
While  a  deathly  music  played, 
While  a  deathly  music  played ! 


EVENING. 


The  lingering  rays  are  falling  down 

In  rarest  beauty  there ; 
And  o'er  the  fields  the  dear  old  Home 

Is  shining  faultless  fair. 

ii. 
He  rests  his  hand  upon  the  rail 

Beneath  the  grand  old  frees ; 
And  softly  floats  thro'  twilight  shades 

The  odor-laded  breeze. 

in. 

He  sees  the  cattle  in  the  fields, 
The  homestead  farther  back ; 

And  memory  wanders  softly  then 
Along  a  hallowed  track. 

IV. 

The  track  he  loved  in  younger  days, 
When  life  was  all  a  dream ; 

And  everything  did  sweetly  go 
As'some  old  babbling  stream. 

v. 

And  fall  the  shadows  softer  down 

Upon  the  field,  the  tree ; 
Till  thro'  the  shadows  he  has  seen 

The  Future  yet  to  be ! 


THE  BROKEN  HOME. 


DEDICATION:  TO  S.  BABCOCK. 

A  poet's  love  has  named  thee  here, 

My  honored  critic,  friend, 
The  Nine  will  bow  above  thy  bier 

When  death  and  thee  shall  blend ; 
The  years  have  gone  since  you  and  I 

Were  pilgrims  one  with  one, 
Our  wealth  was  in  the  bended  sky, 

With  work  from  sun  to  sun. 

We  loved  the  muses,  all  the  scenes 

Where  Culture  wrapt  around 
A  hallowed  garb,  with  starlight  sheens, 

And  holy  joys  were  found ; 
The  morrow  bade  the  morrow  come 

When  Fame  should  crown  the  bard, 
But  all  the  future  speechless,  dumb, 

A  thing  that  Home  had  starred. 

And  e'en  to-day  the  straining  eye 

May  see  the  bended  bow, 
A  fame  and  name  across  the  sky 

With  flowerets  all  in  blow ; 
But  castles  browing  o'er  the  Rhine 

Are  fogbanks  from  afar, 
The  boat  may  flow  on  silvered  Tyne, 

And  yet  a  hidden  star. 

But  he  whom  nature  clothes  with  fire, 

The  gift  of  native  song, 
Shall  strike  for  love  the  Delphic  lyre, 

Tho'  world  may  chide  and  wrong ; 
'Twas  death  alone  that  crowned  my  Keats, 

My  Milton  great,  sublime, 


THE  BROKEN  HOME.  153 

A  fameless  bard  that  names  and  greets, 
My  friend,  the  rest  to  time. 


Hope  had  twined  her  rosy  wreath 

Like  a  halo  round  their  home, 
Come  with  me,  the  rose  and  leaf 

Show  you  beauty  there  that  shone ; 
He  had  wooed  her  bride  of  brides 

Thro'  the  days  and  evens  gone, 
Peace  and  Joy  like  meeting  tides, 

Made  one  music  thro'  the  dawn ; 
Sacred  love  had  shaped  them  one, 

Blending  like  Aurora  hues, 
Come  with  me,  the  day  is  done, 

Sacred  hands  their  pathway  strews 
With  the  flowers  of  fleckless  love, 

Grown  in  gardens  of  the  thought, 
Where  the  rain-dews  from  above 

Fall  like  incense  on  the  spot. 
Birds  were  singing  lays  of  hope 

Soft  as  Eden  rose-vales  knew, 
Never  wedded  homescene  ope 

Brighter  flowerets  blushing  thro' ; 
Cottage  twined  with  rosy  wreaths 

Showed  no  mortgage  on  its  face, 
Joy  and  Hope  from  bowered  sheaths 

Smiled  their  sweetness  o'er  the  place ; 
All  around  of  cloudless  peace 

Wafted  from  the  vales  of  light, 
There  where  love-word  finds  release, 

There  an  angel  'rayed  in  white ; 
Come  with  me,  you  hear  of  bliss 

Far  across  the  cloudless  blue, 
Here  on  earth  the  twm-dales  kiss, 

That  from  this  you  shall  construe ; 
See  the  modest  picture  first 

As  upon  a  Raphael  screen, 
Homer  Edens  there  of  erst 

God  and  goddess  in  the  scene, 
Bowered  cottage  at  the  foot 

Of  the  cloud-kist  topless  hills, 
Oak  and  hemlock's  gnarl6d  root, 

Spring-fed,  moss-lined  mountain  rills. 
Acres  few,  but  all  the  world 

Unto  those  that  shared  them  twin ; 
Hear  the  brook  that  winding  purled 

Where  thy  youth-scenes  grew  thy  kin, 


154  THE  LAD  TOP  DABDALE. 

Song  like  this  that  sang  for  them, 

Sweeter  made  by  baby  chimes, 
Which  no  heart  shall  e'er  condemn, 

Tho'  the  jars  come  in  my  rhymes ; 
Fresh  as  dewdrops  on  the  wold, 

Beaded  gems  among  the  grass, 
Opened  rosebud  fold  on  fold, 

Hear  his  coo-tones  as  you  pass, 
Eyes  as  blue  as  farthest  skies 

Hung  across  the  hilltop  beech, 
Looks  that  seemed  not  overwise, 

Yet  a  depth  beyond  the  reach 
Of  divinest  alchemy, 

Who  might  answer  questions  there 
Born  in  chambers  where  all  beauty 

Wooed  a  place  mid  vacant  stare ; 
He  that  knit  the  soul  to  soul 

With  the  lily-threads  of  thought, 
Shaped  the  two  a  rounded  whole, 

Beauteous- twined  forget-me-not. 
Come  with  me,  the  Raphael  screen 

Gave  in  miniature  all  as  all, 
Now  the  parts  that  make  the  scene 

Claim  us  in  the  even's  pall. 
.    Thro'  the  gate  inviting  swung 

As  by  touch  of  magic  wand, 
Moved  our  form  as  marriage  rung, 

Love  with  love  in  beauty  dawned. 
See  the  sun  behind  the  hill 

Painting  pictures  in  the  sky, 
This  the  scene  that  burst  so  still 

Like  a  ray-view  of  the  eye ; 
Wooing  breezes  fanned  our  path, 

Oder-laded  with  the  scent 
Of  the  flowerets  from  their  bath 

Of  the  dews  that  heaven  lent ; 
There  you  see  the  tall  sunflower, 

Hollyhock,  the  rose,  and  pink. 
Laughing  snow-drops  from  their  bower 

Where  the  fire-flies  wing  and  sink ; 
Dome  of  stars  is  spread  above, 

Diamonds  o'er  a  throned  home, 
Coronet  with  crowning  dove, 

More  to  them  than  sceptered  Rome. 
Cottage  rose  upon  the  view 

As  some  architect  divine 
From  a  rhythmic  region  drew 

All  his  magic  of  design. 


THE  BROKEN  HOME.  156 

See  the  cottage  love  has  reared 

From  his  castles  in  the  air, 
Here  the  brain-view  has  appeared, 

Picture  rounded  full  and  fair ; 
Swings  the  door  by  Cupid  hands, 

Strongest  guard  their  home  shall  need, 
All  about  are  woven  bands 

Woof  ed  of  hope  and  modest  deed. 
You  shall  see  them  in  the  prime 

Of  sweet  even's  hearthhome  scene, 
Cooing  babe  that  rosy  Time 

Like  a  floweret  flung  between ; 
All  the  room  with  cleanly  face, 

Evening  table  cleared  of  food, 
With  a  something  o'er  the  place 

That  has  won  you  ere  you  wooed. 
Mellow  shadows  met  and  kissed 

On  the  lamplight  figured  wall, 
Not  a  baby-prank  was  missed 

Like  the  stargems  there  did  fall. 
"Mine  and  thine  and  thine  and  mine, 

Rosy  link  that  makes  the  chain 
Half  and  half,  a  whole  divine, 

With  a  rainbow  in  the  brain." 
Thus  they  talked  across  the  hearth, 

Making  music  in  the  mind, 
"Sweetest  floweret  in  his  birth 

Ever  mother-heart  shall  find;" 
And  the  answer  soft  and  low, 

Told  in  tone  the  conscious  love 
Welling  from  the  heart  where  flow 

Hopes  of  hopes  that  ever  clove 
Unto  mother's  heart  of  hearts, 

Painting  scenes  where  rosary  dews 
Freshen  all  the  pictured  arts, 

Vying  'neath  Elysian  hues. 
"Months  have  shaped  the  rounded  year 

From  the  feathered  foot  of  Time, 
Flower  on  flower  in  train  appear, 

Toning  all  to  perfect  chime." 
"Yes,  my  wife,  the  year  has  gone 

Like  a  love-view  in  a  dream, 
Doming  all  a  dappled  dawn, 

Tho'  the  cares  have  come  between." 
"Cares  are  spices  dropped  among 

Cloying  joys  that  crowd  the  scene, 
Birds  are  sweeter  that  have  sung 

Not  too  oft  across  the  green." 


156  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

"True,  my  wife,  your  word  is  law, 

Woman's  patience  is  not  mine, 
Man  shall  aim  and  quickly  draw, 

Firing  random  like  a  rhyme ; 
Somehow  woman  is  a  power, 

Very  weakness  gendering  force, 
Eve,  not  Adam,  in  the  Bower, 

Thro'  the  ages  seems  the  source 
Of  the  Garden's  biblic  fame, 

Handed  down  from  age  to  age, 
Like  a  love-tale  in  its  claim, 

Never  old  across  the  page. 
What  the  earth  without  her  sex, 

Man  would  sink  among  the  weeds, 
She  a  moon  with  soft  reflex 

In  a  sky  of  holy  deeds." 
Thus  they  talked  in  random  wise, 

While  the  babe  unconscious  grew 
Perfect  beauty  in  their  eyes, 

As  no  magic  painter  drew. 
O  the  love  unconscious  felt 

For  the  babe  that  links  to  earth, 
Who  shall  name  it  lavish  dealt, 

Born  in  hearts,  a  holy  birth ! 
Heaven  there  as  fairly  shone 

As  an  earthly  scene  shall  know, 
Music  fell  in  softened  tone, 

As  from  heavenly  harps  shall  flow 
Like  a  rose  in  softest  down 

Lay  the  hope  that  made  them  one, 
Never  babe  in  all  the  town 

Such  a  seraph  presence  wen. 


Even  fled  before  the  night, 

Night  before  the  crimson  dawn, 
Till  the  day  all  lovely  white, 

Lay  o'er  valley,  hill,  and  lawn ; 
Birds  were  singing,  kine  were  lowing, 

Busy  sounds  rang  in  the  day ; 
Dews  were  fleeting,  waters  flowing, 

All  the  morn  in  bridal  'ray ; 
Flowers  springing,  milkmaids  singing, 

Nature  laughter  in  her  looks, 
Skylarks  singing,  joyous  winging, 

Naiads  scant-dressed  in  the  brooks ; 
Trees  were  budding,  clouds  were  scudding, 

Odors  fresh  from  Flora's  grot, 


THE  BE  OKEN  HOME.  157 

Time  was  going,  Phoebus  flooding 

All  the  scene  so  flowery  wrought ; 
Dullards  started  from  their  slumbers, 

Snails  grew  hurried  in  their  pace, 
Such  a  joyous  spirit  cumbers 

All  the  scenes  that  interlace ; 
Married,  wedded,  wooed  and  winning, 

Cupid  shooting  quivers  random, 
All  a  bride-hope  in  beginning, 

Fell  in  train,  and  trippdd  tandem ; 
And  the  home  so  sweetly  twining 

All  the  joys  with  downy  feet, 
Like  an  Eden  was  reclining, 

Where  the  beauties  woo  and  greet. 
Sweet  Aurora  in  her  tresses 

Shone  across  the  weeping  morn, 
Every  scene  a  love  confesses 

Wooing  sweetly  'neath  the  dawn ; 
Care  and  Night  together  wedded 

Took  their  tour  adown  the  west, 
Morning  joys  profusely  shedded 

Like  a  May-queen  all  had  dressed ; 
Song  and  laughter  thro'  the  valleys, 

Smiles  and  sunshine  on  the  hills, 
Cupid  there  his  love-maid  rallies 

Feeding  sugar-casSd  pills ; 
Faint  ambition  gathered  spirit, 

Moaning  souls  gave  smile  for  smile, 
Every  hope  that  could  endear  it 

Smiled  upon  the  scene  the  while ; 
And  the  cottage  like  a  painting, 

Childhood  pictured  in  the  brain, 
Seemed  an  Eden  slowly  fainting 

From  the  fair  Elysian  plain ; 
Fainting,  fainting  till  in  chiming, 

Shone  the  tree,  the  house,  the  barn, 
Like  some  master  poet's  rhyming 

Softly  toned  as  mountain  tarn, 
Till  to  eyes  of  heavenly  meaning 

Like  that  home  across  the  sky, 
Seemed  the  cottage  in  its  sheening, 

Heaven  on  earth  to  raptured  eye. 
O  such  beauty !    O  such  beauty ! 

O  such  loveliness  of  life ! 
That  the  Death-king  in  his  duty 

Turn  such  scenes  to  tears  and  strife! 
Faith,  O  Faith!  why  art  thou  shaken? 

Hands  that  limned  the  pictured  sky 


158  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Hold  a  hope  that  is  not  taken 

Tho'  the  earthly  man  shall  die ! 
He  that  says  my  Shakespeare  readeth 

Greater  than  the  crushless  Word, 
For  a  chaos  madly  pleadeth, 

Lower  thoughts  alone  that  stirred. 
Here  a  heaven  like  the  heaven 

Humble  hearts  have  pictured  true, 
Faith  that  shines  o'er  "We  are  Seven," 

Tho'  a  child  the  picture  drew ; 
He  may  see  an  earthly  meaning 

Why  my  mother's  wreathed  with  death; 
But  that  other  faintly  gleaming 

Word  of  his  may  not  confess. 
Heaven  is  mine  if  I  shall  choose  it, 

Mind  alone  has  builded  here, 
Haven  havens  where  a  music 

Sounds  akin  of  other  sphere. 
He  that  finds  his  life  at  ending 

When  the  pale-faced  steed  is  come, 
Has  no  hope  that  hearts  are  blending 

Earthly  and  a  heavenly  home. 
One  by  one  the  starlights  darken, 

Hue  by  hue  the  halos  fade, 
Till  a  voice  says:  "Hearken,  hearken! 

Last  of  all  in  death  are  laid ! 
Yet  the  hearts  that  fondly  cherished 

Hopes  that  spanned  beyond  the  tomb, 
Find  the  earthly  home  is  perished, 

Yet  a  fairer  one  in  bloom!" 
And  my  cottage  modest  looking 

Like  a  sceptered  seraph's  throne, 
All  a  holiday  is  putting 

O'er  its  face  so  nower-bestrown  ; 
Yet  I  own  thro'  all  its  sheening, 

Perfect  hearts  have  painted  more 
Than  upon  the  canvas  gleaming, 

Tho'  you  turn  it  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Holy  calm  in  quiet  breathing, 

Looked  from  whole,  and  half,  and  part, 
With  a  rainbow  soft  enwreathing 

Care  and  woe,  and  love  and  heart. 
Other  hands  might  turn  the  flowers, 

Other  hearts  make  music  there, 
Yet  the  minutes  growing  hours, 

Have  a  bulk  of  crowned  Care. 
More  the  mind  that  made  my  Eden,, 

Tho'  the  nature-scene  was  fair, 


THE  BROKEN  HOME.  159 

Liberty  reigned  and  starred  Freedom, 

Beauty  diademed  there. 
See  the  picture  lives  have  painted 

Grown  together  one  as  one, 
After-view  has  ever  fainted, 

Less  of  brightness  in  the  sun ; 
Yet  'tis  natural,  for  the  mind 

Magic  beauties  ever  drew, 
Rearing  castles  brightly  outlined, 

Where  the  joy-gods  shimmer  thro'. 
Castles  never  painter  won 

From  his  Raphael-thoughted  brain, 
For  the  picture  was  begun 

Where  the  peerless  artists  reign ; 
And  the  morning  throned  in  beauty, 

Like  some  fairy  eastern  clime, 
Reigned  there  a  queen  of  duty, 

Scattering  gems  from  every  mine ; 
While  the  cottage  softly  looming 

From  a  thousand  beauties  round, 
E'en  the  rarest  flower  was  blooming 

From  the  seeming  hallowed  ground. 
"Cocks  had  sung  their  earliest  greeting" 

To  the  bright  effulgent  morn, 
And  the  myriad  beauties  meeting 

Wove  a  garland  o'er  the  dawn. 
Now  my  picture  in  its  meaning 

Read  you  ere  the  tale  is  done, 
House  and  barn,  and  fireside  gleaming, 

With  a  brightness  of  the  sun. 
See  their  love  that  gave  a  wedding 

To  the  past  of  bridal  years, 
Linking  link  that  now  is  shedding 

Rainbow  joys  of  pleasures'  tears. 
This  is  earth,  and  Heaven  a  painting, 

Faith  and  Hope  the  artists  true, 
Earthly  beauties  slowly  fainting 

Let  the  brighter  heaven  through ; 
For  the  joy-scenes'  nameless  number 

Bind  us  more  to  fleeting  earth, 
'Tis  the  cares  that  come  and  cumber 

Teach  us  things  of  higher  birth: 
Thus  this  Eden  I  am  painting 

Halo-domed  by  brightest  stars, 
Shall  be  fainting,  shall  be  fainting, 

Death  and  wailing,  funeral  cars ; 
Woe  and  chaos,  thorn  and  bramble, 

Piteous  cries  across  the  night, 


160  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Life  and  Death  shall  sit  and  gamble 

Till  the  mother's  cold  and  white ; 
But,  ah  gracious  reigning  Power, 

As  they  kiss  beside  the  hearth, 
Morning  shows  them  not  the  hour 

That  shall  darken  o'er  their  mirth ; 
And  we  see  them  in  the  morning, 

Saying  each  to  each  adieu, 
Peace  and  love  their  lives  adorning, 

Babe  a  floweret  blushing  thro' ; 
And  good-by,  good-by,  they  said  it, 

Smiling  Hope  shone  soft  above, 
Every  joy-view  sweetly  wed  it, 

All  the  scene  so  roofed  of  love ; 
Kisses  pure  as  Love  has  cherished 

When  the  lips  have  met  their  first, 
In  a  cadence  softly  perished, 

Like  the  melodies  bards  rehearsed ; 
Hope  divided  went  and  stayed, 

"Good-by,  papa,"  sounded  there, 
Mother  o'er  the  fondling  prayed, 

Each  and  each  seemed  flowerets  fair :. 
Thus  the  lesson  morn  on  morning 

Taught  a  love  as  loyal  true, 
Ever  human  mates  adorning, 

Since  pure  Love  had  taught  to  woo ; 
And  a  day  alone  should  sever, 

Loved  adieu  and  fond  farewell, 
Rang  out  sweetly  as  forever 

Hope  and  Love  would  wedded  dwell 
O'er  these  lives  that  taught  us  Heaven,, 

Born  of  earth  and  mated  love, 
As  to  them  were  truer  given 

Joys  Elysian  born  above : 
But  a  guest  came  there  unbidden, 

And  a  form  was  whited  laid 
In  his  arms  that  night  had  hidden, 

Tho'  these  arms  had  come  and  slayed  \ 
Nothing  sudden  but  as  slowly 

As  a  love  shall  steal  to  heart, 
And  a  voice  that  said,  O  lowly! 

"Come,  the  hour  must  bid  thee  part  V 
And  returning,  home  returning, 

From  a  journey  business  led, 
Beaming  with  a  haloed  yearning, 

Bride  of  brides !  he  found  her  dead ! 
O  the  anguish !  O  the  anguish! 

O  the  heavy  woe  that  weighed ! 


THE  BROKEN  HOME.  161 

Now  shall  Faith  in  shadow  languish! 

Love  that  won  her  wedded  maid ! 
O  the  moments  shorn  of  beauty ! 

O  the  pall  of  bridal  years ! 
Was  it  duty?  was  it  duty? 

Faith  is  shadowed  in  his  tears. 
Silence  reigns,  and  flowers  blooming 

Cast  their  speaking  shadows  there, 
Once  the  scene  all  rhymes  assuming 

Broke  discordant  on  the  air. 
Vainest  thing  that  love  had  joined 

In  the  past  when  all  was  well, 
In  a  language  strangely  coined, 

With  the  moments  rose  and  fell. 
Thousand  things  his  eye  had  slighted 

When  the  music  had  not  jarred, 
Started  now  like  ghosts  affrighted, 

Late  that  love  had  gemmed  and  starred; 
Voices  low  that  once  had  trifled, 

Struck  like  daggers  at  his  heart, 
And  the  sobbings  faintly  stifled, 

Hollow  echoes  seemed  to  start : 
And  he  saw  her  in  her  beauty 

White  as  lilies  of  the  vale, 
And  the  beauty,  all  her  beauty, 

Ne'er  so  sweetly  did  prevail. 
Tears  were  flowing,  vainly  flowing, 

On  the  white  and  placid  face, 
And  the  sunshine  going,  going, 

Left  a  darkness  o'er  the  place. 
"And  no  word,  no  slightest  token, 

Lingering  smile  across  the  lips, 
Broken,  broken,  sadly  broken, 

Death  and  silence  on  her  lips ! — 
O  my  baby !  O  my  darling  I 

O  my  rosy  set  in  night  I 
Song  of  bird  and  rarest  starling, 

Come  and  fall,  and  sad  unite ! 
Eyes  of  blue  that  find  no  meaning 

Why  thine  all  of  all  is  shorn, 
Hold  me  like  a  beauty  gleaming 

Far  across  the  cloudless  morn! 
O  that  voice  might  grasp  the  reason 

Yet  to  be  upon  thy  tongue, 
Voice  and  accent  playing  treason, 

In  a  babel  wildly  rung ; 
Word  with  word  tho'  coming  faintly, 

Stealing  solace  from  the  gloom, 
11 


162  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Angels  standing  pure  and  saintly, 

Bowing  Hope  across  the  tomb. 
Cries  of  thine  shall  not  restore  her, 

Moans  of  mine  shall  not  avail, 
Tears  and  anthems  vainly  o'er  her, 

All  the  soulless  air  assail. 
O  my  Lonie !  fairest  Lonie ! 

O  my  fairest,  rarest  maid ! 
Path  of  mine  is  hard  and  stony, 

Path  of  mine  is  danked  of  shade. 
O  ye  powers  that  reign  above  us, 

Why  such  beauty  should  ye  mar? 
Does  a  higher  reason  love  us, 

Making  heaven  from  falling  star  ? 
She  is  fairer  with  the  fairest, 

Else  my  faith  is  dazed  and  lone, 
Death,  perchance,  may  be  the  rarest 

Boon  that  doubting  man  may  own. 
Who  may  say  that  love  the  glory 

Of  the  binding  things  of  earth? 
Love  the  flower,  and  love  the  story, 

Love  the  things  of  kindred  birth  ? 
What  the  purpose?  what  the  meaning? 

Why  should  Death  come  heartless  here  ?- 
Faith  a  halo,  pally  gleaming : 

"Death's  a  blessing  and  no  peer!" 
Now  he  sees  them  weeping,  weeping, 

Hears  them  wailing  thro'  the  night, 
While  his  heart  is  keeping,  keeping, 

Solemn  time  with  moments'  flight. 
Now  he  sees  the  babe  of  beauty, 

His  babe,  her  babe !— O  my  God! 
Was  it  duty?  was  it  duty? 

But  a  sob,  O  but  a  sob ! 
Other  hands  are  fondly  caring 

For  the  hope  that  made  them  one, 
Yet  the  wide  eyes  are  but  staring,— 

Where ?  O  where  is  mamma  gone? 
Out  from  eye  and  face  did  fashion, 

Out  from  look,  and  form  and  mouth, 
Yet  this  death  came  not  in  passion, 

But  as  calm  as  from  the  south 
Winds  o'er  fields  that  are  Elysian, 

Picturing  peace,  and  calm,  and  love, 
Came  he  like  a  love-dream  vision, 

Hung  across  the  skies  above. 
Now  he  sees  her  like  a  flower 

With  the  flowers  across  her  breast, 


BENEATH  THE  STABS.  163 

Yet  so  silent  in  that  hour, 

With  a  silence  that  opprest ; 
And  the  eye  that  beamed  so  brightly, 

Not  a  quiver  in  the  lash, 
And  her  voice  that  came  so  lightly,— 

O  the  waves  that  meet  and  dash ! 
As  a  dream  the  death-scene  passes, 

As  entranced  he  wanders  far, 
As  a  ghost  among  the  grasses, 

As  a  ghost  beneath  the  star. 
All  of  earth  seemed  but  a  token 

Of  the  joys  that  once  had  reigned, 
Of  the  home  and  home-lives  broken, 

Of  the  death  that  came  and  claimed ; 
And  beside  the  grave-rose  blooming, 

Bends  he  hopeless  with  his  child, 
Talking  sadly  of  the  glooming 

Stealing  once  so  still  and  mild ; 
And  together  thro'  the  even 

In  a  calm  that  had  a  tone, 
Thought  of  her  a  star  of  Heaven, 

As  a  mother  taken  home. 


BENEATH  THE  STARS. 

The  winds  were  coming  from  the  west, 

The  stars  were  bright  above, 
The  cloud-queen  moon  the  hue  confest, 

The  eye  that  spoke  of  love. 
The  picture  on  her  face  as  plain 

As  though  the  thoughts  within 
Had  struggled  there  thro'  high  disdain, 

Thro'  pride,  and  freak,  and  whim. 

The  lad  was  poor,  and  she  was  queen, 

The  prince,  the  courtier  bowed, 
And  wandering  there  in  stately  mien, 

The  star-bespangled  cloud 
Made  light  and  shade  that  named  her  love, 

The  forces  met  within, 
The  love  and  pride  that  madly  strove 

Her  artist  thought  did  limn. 

Her  horse  had  sprung  in  mad  career, 
A  homely  hand  had  saved 


164  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALK 

An  honest  hand  that  wiped  the  tear, 
An  honest  voice  that  craved : 

"Your  pardon,  lady,"  and  was  gone 
The  man,  the  voice,  the  sound, 

Yet  Eros-king  had  pierced  her  scorn, 
And  oped  a  healless  wound. 

Sir  Wilbur  Grey  on  tameless  steed 

Was  sweeping  o'er  the  moor, 
Of  all  the  chiefs  he  took  the  lead 

That  mime  at  fashion's  door, 
This  haughty  queen,  proud  Lady  Train, 

A  wax-rose  smile  had  won, 
Sir  Wilbur  Grey  a  star  did  reign 

That  mocked  the  glowing  sun. 

And  now  as  bard  that  struggles  hard 

With  nameless  thoughts  within, 
She  wandered  there ;  the  night  was  starred, 

Chameleon  clouds  between. 
Her  love  and  pride  in  mingled  tide 

Were  surging  in  her  breast, 
"And  shall  I  be  the  poor  man's  bride  ?" 

The  telltale  blush  confessed. 

His  voice  was  soft  as  rippling  wave, 

His  beard  a  flowing  stream, 
His  smile  the  flower  above  the  grave 

Where  sweetness,  sadness  dream, 
His  phrases  fresh  as  poet's  verse, 

His  numbers  full  and  round, 
A  seraph's  voice  that  did  rehearse, 

A  seraph's  hand  that  bound. 

A  fairy  dream  on  emerald  isle, 

Where  blue  with  blue  above, 
The  clouds  in  gay  theatric  pile, 

The  vault  that  roofed  her  love, 
The  dapper  stars,  the  Eros  moon, 

The  faintly  bended  dome, 
The  thoughts  that  flowers  give  in  bloom, 

The  pansy  decks  the  loam. 

And  yet  the  lad  of  voiceless  love, 

A  stranger  to  her  ways, 
Unconscious  cause,  and  hard  she  strove. 

The  starlights'  dappled  rays 


BENEATH  THE  STAES.  165 

Were  on  her  face ;  a  whistling  lad 

Was  crossing  o'er  the  lea ; 
And  there  with  face  upturned,  and  sad, 

"Thy  peace  but  gall  to  me." 

The  owl  with  tuwhit,  and  tuwhoo, 

With  eyes  unearthly  grim, 
Had  pierced  her  being  thro'  and  thro', 

Down  from' a  gnarled  limb. 
The  shadows  shot  their  thousand  eyes, 

Godiva  thrice  she  fled, 
The  requiem  swan  that  sails  and  dies 

The  picture,  pictures  wed. 

And  rose  the  sun  o'er  topless  hills, 

The  clouds  were  from  the  night, 
And  chimed  her  voice  like  waveless  rills 

That  throw  their  emerald  light ; 
And  never  brighter  world  before, 

And  never  lovelier  view, 
The  prayer  she  prayed  the  first  did  pour, 

The  peace  the  first  she  knew. 

Sir  Wilbur  Grey  on  tameless  steed, 

Is  moving  o'er  the  lea, 
A  whistling  lad  that  crossed  the  meed, 

"My  gold  for  peace  like  thee ;" 
And  faintly  'neath  the  moor-met  sky, 

His  steed  and  form  are  gone, 
'Twas  he  that  heaved  the  heavy  sigh, 

His  face  where  passions  storm. 

Sweet  Lady  Train,  sweet  Lady  Train, 

A  bride  becomes  to-night! 
And  Amos  Day  is  there  to  claim 

The  flowery  bride  in  white ! 
The  venerable  father  bowed  in  years, 

Has  blessed  his  daughter's  choice, 
The  endless  bow  shone  thro*  their  tears 

As  one  the  guests  rejoice. 

The  nuts,  the  cakes,  the  rosaried  wine, 

Had  graced  the  jovial  board, 
And  woven  silver  from  the  mine 

Where  sunlight  never  poured ; 
The  nuts  had  cracked  with  many  a  joke, 

The  wine  had  washed  them  down, 


166  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

"And  Amos  Day  a  finer  stroke 
Than  history  tells  the  town !" 

And  thus  the  gibe,  the  joke,  the  jest, 

Was  sparkling  like  the  wine, 
The  bridegroom  blushed,  the  bride  confest 

The  sallies  in  her  eyne, 
The  father  laughed  like  twenty  years, 

The  mother  grew  a  maid, 
And  thro'  the  laughter  and  the  tears, 

The  bridegroom  joke  was  played. 

But  hark !  shrill  cries  are  in  the  night 

As  when  a  fire  is  rung, 
The  guests  are  risen  pale  and  white, 

The  doors  are  open  flung ! 
An  angered  voice :  "The  maddened  steed 

Has  turned  things  upside  down  I" 
And  Wilbur  Grey,  his  anger  freed, 

Stood  there  with  puzzled  frown. 

The  bride  has  swooned ! — He  sleeks  his  beard, 

A  volume  in  his  eye ; 
"A  wedding  feast !"  and  bold  appeared 

A  bearded  smile,  and  dry. 
"She  loved  me  first,  she  loved  me  last! 

My  riddle  you  shall  read ; 
Throw  down  the  dice,  the  die  is  cast, 

Not  heart  of  mine  to  bleed." 

The  hostler,  servants,  kitchen  maid, 

Are  thick  about  his  path, 
A  foray  or  a  border  raid 

Is  pictured  in  their  wrath. 
"Leave,  leave  my  house,  Sir  Wilbur  Grey! 

The  maid  is  now  a  bride, 
'Twas  she  that  bade  you  go  or  stay, 

'Tis  she  should  touch  your  pride." 

"Your  bridegroom  brave  has  shown  his  heart 

Excitement  named  his  flight!" 
And  guest  and  father  there  did  start ; 

The  bride  was  deathly  white ! 
"Sir  Wilbur  Grey,  and  why  art  come?" 

"  'Twas  I  that  named  you  bride ! 
A  queen  you  are  of  a  prince's  home!" — 

And  beard  fell  down  his  side ! 


LIFE  IS  SWEET,  AND  LIFE  IS  SAD.  167 

The  guests  are  startled,  and  the  joke 

Reigns  there  the  joke  of  all ; 
"The  steed  that  madly  from  me  broke, 

A  jest  within  the  hall ; 
Sir  Wilbur  Grey  and  Day  are  one, 

'Twas  one  in  both  that  strove, 
The  lad  prevailed,  no  gold  that  won 

Her  thought,  her  heart,  her  love  I" 


LIFE  IS  SWEET,  AND  LIFE  IS  SAD. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
As  when  a  bard  no  longer  sings, 
The  Muse  of  death  around  him  clings, 
And  from  the  earth  on  seraph  wings, 

Soars  his  soul  from  good  and  bad. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
As  when  that  Dread  on  dusky  wings 
Takes  from  the  heart  the  cherished  things, 
A  babe  that  smiled  its  death-bell  rings, 

Ere  the  lips  its  lips  could  greet. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
As  when  a  ship  siftks  thro'  the  wave, 
From  smiling  life  to  smileless  grave, 
No  hand  outstretched  but  His  to  save, 

Hundred  souls  in  fear  gone  mad. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
As  when  a  love  meets  love  in  tryst, 
And  ere  the  wedded  bride  is  kissed, 
The  snake  of  woe  has  sadly  hissed, 

Jealous  thought  the  thought  to  greet. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
As  when  a  youth  in  folly's  way 
From  Christian  hearth  has  gone  astray, 
And  blossoms  fair  are  in  decay, 

And  all,  all  the  world  seems  bad. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
As  when  a  Christ  has  won  a  cross 
By  self-restraint  and  friendship's  loss, 
And  waves  of  life  do  madly  toss, 

Naught  but  thorns,  and  rain,  and  sleet. 


168  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
As  when  the  babe  smiles  in  the  man, 
And  arching  bow  in  golden  span 
Shows  prospect  fair,  but  in  a  ban, 

Curses  all  as  joys  gone  mad. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
From  cradle-house  to  yawning  grave, 
For  weak  and  strong,  the  shy  and  brave, 
While  joys  and  woes  in  bitter  wave, 

Flow  together,  flow  and  meet. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
The  joy-bell  rings,  the  curfew  tolls, 
The  laughter  sounds,  the  dead-hearse  rolls, 
While  wedded  bride  and  cry  of  souls, 

Mingle,  mingle  good  and  bad. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
As  when  the  flowers  are  o'er  a  grave, 
The  moonlight  halos  pally  lave 
A  voiceless  mound  above  a  brave, 

Soulless  now  where  starlights  meet. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
As  when  a  dawning  mind  is  tombed, 
The  flowers  of  hope  are  blighted,  gloomed, 
That  mystic  Dread  has  darkly  loomed, 

Hearts  are  crushed  that  once  were  glad. 

Life  is  sad  and  life  is  sweet, 
As  when  a  life  in  fruited  prime 
Has  chimed  like  poets  in  their  rhyme, 
The  thread  has  snapped,  the  broken  chime 

Jars,  and  jars  like  passion's  heat. 

Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
The  sun  has  shone,  'tis  inky  night, 
There  comes  a  moan,  the  e'en  is  bright, 
The  martin  sings,  in  arrowy  flight, 

Time  is  taking,  and  shall  add. 

Life  is  sad,  and  life  is  sweet, 
A  babe  is  born,  a  father's  mound 
Is  dark  in  night,  there  falls  a  sound 
Of  revelry,  and  mirth  has  drowned 

Mourning  souls  that  joyless  meet. 


EVENING.  169 


Life  is  sweet,  and  life  is  sad, 
'Tis  merriest  joy,  'tis  darkest  woe, 
They  mingle,  mingle  and  they  go, 
A  stream  where  cares  and  joys  shall  flow 

To  one  great  ending  good  or  bad. 


EVENING. 

The  queen  of  the  clouds 
All  draped  in  her  shrouds, 

Was  sailing  in  majesty, 
The  stars  with  their  light, 
The  diamonds  of  night 

A  banner  of  beauty 
Had  woven. 

The  blue  of  the  sky 

With  cloudlets  did  vie 
As  stars  in  a  diadem ; 

The  zephyrs  were  soft 

As  dust  that  is  doft 
By  lily  or  rose  when 
'Tis  shaken. 

The  psalms  of  the  sea 

Moaned  sad  on  che  lea 
As  bell  of  the  ocean, 

When  fog-clouds  are  dense, 

The  feelings  intense 
Have  wrought  the  emotion 
Of  dying. 

The  waves  from  the  lea 
Seemed  graves  of  the  sea 

Where  millions  were  buried, 
With  slab  nor  a  mound, 
Where  sea-mews'  the  sound, 

And  ocean's  unvaried, 
The  requiem. 

The  hills  of  the  night 

Were  lost  in  the  light 
That  shrouded  the  mountain 

The  e'en  was  as  still 

As  voice  of  the  rill 
That  froze  on  the  fountain 
In  winter. 


170  TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

The  hues  of  the  cloud 

In  vying  did  shroud 
The  face  of  the  star-queen, 

A  mellow  shade  fell 

Like  dusk  of  the  well 

Where  sparkles  in  soft  een 

The  water. 

The  maid  of  the  night 
All  robed  in  her  white, 

Was  bright  from  the  cloud-view, 
And  rose  o'er  the  sea, 
The  mount  of  the  lea 

In  garments  of  star-blue 
Bespangled. 

And  maid  of  the  tide, 
And  queen  of  the  bride, 

She  reigned  in  her  glory, 
The  picture  she  drew 
Where  sparkled  the  dew, 

Was  sweet  as  the  story 
Of  Calvary. 

The  stars  of  her  train 

In  halos  did  reign 
Like  crown  of  the  Saviour 

Ascending  the  cloud 

With  mist  for  a  shroud, 
O'er  sight  of  betrayer 
In  agony. 

And  Nature  in  prayer 
Seemed  lowly  bowed  there, 

As  conscious  of  glory 
Of  Father  of  all, 
Where  never  did  fall 

Prayers  from  the  young  or  the  hoary 
Unanswered. 

The  scene  not  to  fade 

For  woe  and  a  maid 
Kose  fleckless  as  morning ; 

The  moon  is  away, 

The  god  of  the  day, 
Is  king  of  the  dawning 
Now  veilless. 


THE  ROBIN  IN  THE  RAIN.  171 

And  yet  the  pure  scene 

Is  limned  on  the  een, 
The  statue-maid  praying; 

An  angel  was  there, 

Tho'  earthly  and  fair, 
A  heaven-light  arraying 
Her  beauty. 


THE  ROBIN  IN  THE  RAIN, 


Little  robin  redbreast 

Singing  in  the  rain, 
Softly  floats  your  joy-song 

'Neath  my  window-pane. 

ii. 
Sitting  on  the  treetop, 

Hardly  knowing  why, 
Floats  your  merry  carol 

To  the  cloudy  sky. 

in. 
Come  from  out  the  shower 

To  my  cottage  home, 
And  my  hands  will  feed  you, — 

Never  need  you  roam. 

IV. 

In  the  pelting  rain-storm, 

On  the  gnarled  limb, 
You're  a  foolish  robin 

With  the  sky  so  grim. 

v. 
Don't  you  feel  the  raindrops 

Pelt  you  on  the  head 
As  you  were  a  robin 

That  they  thought  was  dead? 

VI. 

'Neath  my  eaves  you  carol, 
Stretching  out  your  neck, 

Looking  in  the  shower 
Like  a  little  speck. 


172  TEE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

VII. 

Yet  your  song  is  sweeter 
For  the  storm-clouds  there, 

With  your  mien  so  tender, 
And  your  artless  air. 

VIII. 

For  the  stronger  contrast 
Makes  you  seem  a  bird, 

That  on  earth  was  never, 
Never,  never  heard. 

IX. 

Yet,  sing  as  thou  wiliest, 
For  the  wild-bird's  song 

Seemeth  born  in  heaven, 
And  there  does  belong. 

x. 

So,  my  robin,  carol 
As  thy  will  shall  say, 

And  you're  ever  welcome 
With  your  pretty  lay. 


BY  THE  SEA. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter, 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

—Tennyson. 

And  rhyme-wed  wondering  by  the  sea, 

He  scans  the  wedded  waves, 
His  thoughts  of  earth,  eternity, 

And  ocean's  nameless  graves ; 
The  waves  have  met  the  bended  sky, 

The  clouds  are  ships  at  sea, 
The  maid  of  tides  is  sailing  high, 

O'er  cloud,  and  coast,  and  lea. 

Against  the  sky  the  cliff,  the  hill, 
With  glinting,  shaggy  sides, 

And  all  was  still,  and  all  was  still, 
Save  moaning  of  the  tides ; 


BY  THE  SEA.  173 

The  town  lay  silent  in  the  night, 

A  halo  soft  above, 
As  distance  blinds  the  straining  sight, 

And  lights  and  shades  are  wove. 

As  far  as  eye  could  reach  before, 

A  wave,  wave,  wave, 
And  back,  high  reaching  from  the  shore, 

The  glinting  starlights  lave 
A  tall-hilled  town  in  puzzled  art, 

Where  ancient,  modern  reign, 
The  past  and  present  mingle,  part, 

In  many  a  freak  of  brain. 

The  art  unfound  to  paint  the  view 

That  shapes  in. poet's  brain, 
The  flower  less  sweet,  the  shedded  dew, 

The  scene  where  lilies  reign. 
He  saw  the  form  below  the  wave, 

The  hand  that  shaped  his  years, 
A  mother  mouldering  in  her  grave, 

A  prayer  through  mother's  tears. 

He  saw  the  priest  that  made  them  one, 

The  swain,  the  blushing  bride, 
He  saw  a  life  so  bright  begun, 

A  mystery  of  the  tide ; 
He  saw  the  babe  that  blessed  their  lot, 

A  new-star  wedded  love, 
And  nameless  ocean-cave  his  cot, 

The  careless  world  above. 

He  saw  a  power  beyond  the  sight, 

A  halo-girdled  throne, 
A  mystic  face  that  sheds  the  light 

From  star  nor  sun  has  shone ; 
He  saw  the  first,  the  last,  the  all, 

A  babe,  a  marble  face, 
A  sanded  mound  where  curlews  call, 

And  flowers  interlace. 

He  saw  a  hope  beyond  the  grave, 

E'en  sinners  might  reclaim, 
The  swain  and  king  a  wave  with  wave, 

Distinction  not  of  name; 
He  saw  the  world  a  mighty  stage 

That  moulds  the  shapeless  clay, 
The  babe  a  gray-haired  man  in  age, 

Reflections  of  that  Ray. 


174  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

His  faith  was  faith  that  wins  the  light 

Where  gloom  is  thick  on  gloom, 
To  him  a  clearness  in  the  sight 

That  sees  beyond  the  tomb ; 
To  him  were  death  than  life  the  best, 

The  twilight  through  the  dark, 
The  form  that  sinks  the  glowing  west, 

Where  stars  its  outlines  mark. 

The  tides  were  creeping  up  the  shore, 

The  waters  angry  there, 
But  earthly  eyes  a  light  did  pour 

That  seraph  shone,  and  fair ; 
A  halo  rose  above  his  head, 

The  waters  madly  rave, 
The  morn  had  dawned,  the  poet  dead, 

Was  washing  with  the  wave. 

The  crowd  that  came  the  placid  face 

Saw  upturned  on  the  wave, 
A  calmness  and  a  peace  did  trace, 

The  requiem  waters  lave. 
"His  heart  was  pure,  he  knew  no  wrong!" 

And  tenderly  away 
They  bore  him,  while  the  mottled  throng 

Turned  back  again  to  pray. 


EMERSON. 

But  hark !  that  muffled  funeral  sound ! 

It  jars  across  the  verse ! 
And  he  the  greatest,  most  profound ! 

A  tenant  of  the  hearse ! 

What  voice,  what  song  shall  name  his  fame, 

His  great  intrinsic  worth, 
Who  sculptured  to  the  loftiest  aim, 

Whose  death  is  but  his  birth  ? 

The  great  that  die  a  lovelier  life 

E'er  picture  from  the  tomb, 
'Tis  then  the  hate,  the  jars,  the  strife, 

Shine  lovely  through  the  gloom ! 

And  such  of  him !    A  seraph  light 

Enshrouds  his  placid  form, 
And  where  there  seems  the  darkest  night, 

A  rainbow  crowns  the  storm ! 


YE  BARDS  OF  SONG. 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill.— Tennyson. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way.— Longfellow. 

To-morrow  is  with  God  alone, 
And  man  hath  but  to-day.— Whittier. 

Now  from  the  margin  of  the  silent  sea, 

Take  my  last  offering  ere  I  cross  to  thee.— Holmes. 


I  sing  of  life,  I  sing  of  death, 

The  glories  that  have  been, 
The  sobs  are  thickening  in  my  breath, 

The  tomb  thro'  mist  is  grim ; 
And  they  have  sung  their  songs  of  fame, 

Their  magic  verse  has  rung, 
The  laurels  twine  about  their  name 

As  o'er  a  tomb  have  clung. 

The  years  have  gone  with  peace  and  wars, 

The  graves  have  marked  the  land, 
'Tis  here  they  turn  their  steps  and  pause, 

There  shines  a  beckoning  hand ; 
And  Youth  and  Age  have  met  in  thought, 

The  past,  the  present,  all, 
A  lingering  shred  is  vainly  caught 

Of  things  beyond  recall. 

I  stand  beneath  the  shadowed  hill, 

My  foot  is  at  the  base, 
A  still  small  voice  as  hidden  rill : 

"A  weary  way  you  trace, 
'Tis  they  alone  that  Nature  marked 

To  sing  the  deathless  verse, 
That  climb  my  side  where  shadows  darked 

The  scholars  that  rehearse !" 

175 


176  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Thro'  shrouding  mist  their  forms  are  faint 

As  smile  before  the  gloom, 
The  paling  flush  that  death  shall  paint 

Where  life  has  died  in  bloom ; 
And  yet  the  eye  their  bended  forms, 

Their  frosty  locks  discerns, 
The  marks  are  there  of  many  storms, 

A  stricken  world  that  yearns. 

And  can  we  spare  them  from  the  hearth, 

The  homes  they  cheered  so  long? 
Companions  of  our  joy  and  mirth, 

Our  love,  our  woe,  our  song ! 
Their  lives  have  been  of  peace,  of  love, 

A  cultured  world  has  bowed, 
But  thro'  the  starlights  pale  above, 

The  Muses  bear  a  shroud! 

They  taught  us  patience,  modest  worth, 

The  simplest  forms  of  truth, 
Their  numbers  breathed  a  higher  birth, 

The  hopes  of  glowing  youth ! 
They  led  our  thought  by  veiwless  chain, 

To  realms  of  softer  light, 
'Twas  they  that  soothed  the  harsh  complain, 

The  anger  flashing  white. 

We  held  our  chats  as  with  a  friend 

Who  knows  the  laws  of  life, 
And  wisdom  there  did  wisdom  blend, 

No  anger  in  the  strife ; 
We  argued  oft  with  many  a  line, 

The  shape,  the  style  of  verse, 
Yet  brightly,  faintly  there  did  shine 

The  numbers  full  or  terse. 

No  star  is  rising  in  the  sky 

To  fill  their  places — gone ! 
In  vain,  in  vain  the  straining  eye, 

The  wreath  that  might  adorn  I 
You  shall  not  go !  the  dappled  dawn 

Shall  sing  thy  songs  anew, 
No  stranger  reign  where  fairer  born, 

To  jar  upon  the  view ! 

"And  he  was  here !"— "And  this  the  haunt!'' 

Ah,  sacred  to  the  heart ! 
We  bow  as  at  the  cleansing  font, 

A  holy  calm  does  start  1 


AN  ELEGY.  177 

And  stranger  harps  to  sing  our  songs  ? 

No, — no, — no ! 
To  them  the  right  alone  belongs, 

For  them  the  tears  shall  flow ! 

Our  love  shall  blunt  the  barb  of  death, 

Our  hearts  shall  be  the  shield, 
JEolian  gales  shall  fan  the  breath, 

The  harp  its  tone  shall  yield, 
And  spring-time  bloom  with  many  a  flower, 

The  pansy,  rose,  the  pink, 
And  love  and  hope  in  softest  power, 

Shall  weld  the  broken  link! 


AN  ELEGY. 

Wake,  O  Muse !  thy  solemn  numbers, 

As  in  harptones  from  the  dead, 
And  arouse  the  soul  that  slumbers, 

Ere  the  fleeting  years  are  fled. 

Things  of  beauty  deathless  swaying 

Worlds  on  worlds  in  art  alone, 
Came  of  patience  purely  raying 

Many  a  brain  till  then  unknown. 

Never  came  in  perfect  glory 

Poet,  poem,  stone  or  fane, 
But  a  life  could  tell  a  story 

Full  of  patience,  doubt,  and  pain. 

Never  a  Gray  wrote  deathless  numbers, 

Sad  and  solemn  as  the  tomb, 
That  could  know  were  roused  from  slumbers 

Flowers  of  immortal  bloom. 

Find  the  mind  where  genius  gleameth 

Brilliant,  radiant  and  pure, 
Years  on  years  of  work  it  meaneth 

Thro'  the  dark,  and  dark  obscure. 

See  those  aged  poets  gracing* 

Either  side  Atlantic's  roar, 
Naught  of  time  their  works  defacing. 

But  enhancing  them  the  more. 

*  Longfellow  and  Tennyson- 
12 


178  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

Each  in  age  with  fame  at  zenith, 

Full  of  glory  and  renown, 
Showing  work  and  work  that  meaneth 

Strength  to  meet  fate's  baneful  frown. 

Lives  and  writings  poesy  gracing, 
Pure  and  sweet  of  classic  lore, 

Twin-like  numbers  softly  tracing 
Koutes  of  beauty  to  that  Shore. 

They  were  pearls  as  darkly  hidden 
As  the  form  in  jagged  stone, 

Ere  the  Powers-hand  had  bidden 
Take  thou  shape,  and  Greek  Slave  shone. 

Came  that  Babe  a  home  adorning 
Marked  of  God  and  heavenly  birth, 

'Twere  the  years  that  gave  Him  dawning 
Into  perfect  bloom  of  earth. 

See  that  child  now  calmly  sleeping 
As  the  form  embalmed  in  death, 

Years  of  patience  will  be  fleeting 
Ere  the  man  his  form  confess. 

Life  is  fraught  of  hope,  of  waiting, 
Waiting,  waiting  for  that  time 

When  the  cares  and  woes  abating, 
Blooms  a  life  in  glorious  prime. 

Thus  we  live  the  soul  preparing 
For  that  life  in  death  to  come, 

Where  the  Christ-born  saints  are  sharing 
Blessings  of  that  heavenly  Home. 

That  my  muse  in  perfect  tuning 
Might  enhance  the  goal  of  life, 

Picture  heaven  through  the  glooming, 
Which  of  Eden  bloom  is  rife. 

Patience,  hope,  my  lesson  teaching, 

Aspiration  of  the  heart, 
Higher  yet  and  higher  reaching, 

Till  the  hand  of  death  shall  part. 

Things  of  earth  are  fair  but  fleeting, 
Things  of  Life  are  staid  and  fast, 

Heaven  the  goal  your  heart  is  seeking, 
Ever  heaven  first  and  last. 


AN  ELEGY.  179 

Are  thy  flowers  all  in  blooming 

Blooming,  blooming  for  that  day, 
When  the  Light's  athwart  the  glooming, 

Heaven  and  earth  are  passed  away  ? 

Breath  by  breath  the  hour  is  nearing, 

Breath  by  breath  the  years  are  gone, 
Breath  by  breath  the  night  is  clearing, 

Breath  by  breath  the  Day  is  born. 

Tribes  of  earth  shall  mourn  His  coming , 

Graves  awake  their  sleeping  dead, 
Banished  then  all  false  assuming, 

'Neath  the  light  no  sun  has  shed. 

He  will  come  in  power  and  glory, 

Brighter  than  the  rolling  sun ; 
Read  the  tale  in  golden  Story, 

Win  the  goal  that  He  has  won. 

Art  thou  ready  and  in  waiting, 

All  thy  flowers  shorn  of  weeds, 
That  the  Knock  shall  find  you  waking 

Like  the  bride  that  Hymen  leads  ? 

O  the  voice  of  potent  meaning ! 

O  the  power  that  spans  the  tomb ! 
Were  my  numbers  brighter  gleaming ! 

Were  the  flowers  here  in  bloom ! 

Man,  and  child,  and  babe  adorning 

Brightest  scenes  of  passing  earth, 
O  my  hope  the  kenless  morning 

'Ray  you  with  immortal  birth. 

Ken  the  years  now  slowly  meting 

Sand  by  sand  your  destined  time, 
Hear  your  heart  now  solemn  beating 

Numbers  not  of  earthly  rhyme. 

Life  is  like  the  rosy  morning 

Stealing  thro'  the  dappled  east, 
Like  the  holy  marriage  dawning, 

Like  the  golden  wedding  feast. 

Calm  and  peaceful  life  is  sleeping, 

Calm  and  peaceful  as  of  death, 
Souls  are  crushed  and  eyes  are  weeping, 

Heeded  not  that  sweeping  Breath. 


180  THE  LAD  T  OF  SARD  ALE. 


Chance  is  but  an  idle  fancy 

Born  of  fainting  hearts  alone, 
Satan  saying,  I'll  entrance  thee, 

Glorify  thee  on  a  throne. 

Ne'er  accept  the  sad  illusion 

Luck  alone  can  win  a  crown, 
'Tis  a  sad,  a  mad  delusion, 

Fraught  with  woes  that  bear  you  down. 

Luck  and  chance  are  twins  of  evil, 
Shun  and  shun  them  as  the  asp, 

Born  of  life  and  still  coeval 
Ever  present  first  and  last. 

Therefore,  ye  that  life  encumbers, 
Eouse  the  heart  to  higher  things, 

Ere  the  Power  that  soothes  your  slumbers 
Sways  the  bell  Eternity  rings. 


HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 

Harp  of  my  native  land,  harp  of  my  country, 

Nature  has  crowned  thee  with  myrtle  and  rose, 
For  more  of  the  sweetness  than  greatness  of  poesy 

Swelled  in  thy  numbers  now  sunk  to  repose. 
Native  thy  glory,  and  simple  thy  numbers, 

Master-notes  seldom  resounding  in  skill, 
Struck  by  the  power  that  breaks  not  the  slumbers 

Binding  the  god  of  the  Delphian  hill. 

Ages  on  ages  have  rolled  not  in  glory, 

Winning  the  master,  his  skill,  and  his  art, 
Yet  there  resounds  in  thy  numbers  a  story 

Frought  with  the  love  and  the  hope  of  the  heart. 
Time  makes  the  master  that  rises  in  greatness, 

High  in  the  zenith  of  glory  and  fame, 
Time  gives  to  ages  the  bard  that  is  mateless, 

Wreathing  his  brow  and  enbalming  his  name. 

Artless  hands  found  thee  in  Eden  dales  hanging, 
Sweet  as  the  twilight  that  steals  thro'  the  eve, 

None  of  the  warnotes  in  bitterness  clanging, 
Heard  in  the  numbers  that  foreign  harps  breathe. 


HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY.  181 

Sweetness  alone  is  the  god  of  thy  numbers, 

Beauty  and  loveliness  queen  of  thy  reign, 
Adam  and  Eve  ere  awoke  from  their  slumbers, 

Reigning  in  purity  of  heart  and  of  brain. 

Nature's  the  goddess  that  makes  the  true  poet, 

Filling  his  soul  with  the  sweetness  of  verse, 
Eeigning  the  queen  who  alone  may  bestow  it, 

Giving  him  numbers  no  art  can  rehearse. 
Harp  of  my  fatherland,  nature  has  graced  thee, 

Giving  thee  rich  tones  a  master  can  find, 
Flowers  and  roses  amid  she  has  placed  thee, 

Garlands  of  beauty  in  loveliness  twined. 

Harp  of  my  country,  O  sweetly  thy  numbers 

Fell  like  the  dewdrops  that  weep  from  the  rose, 
Stole  to  my  soul  like  the  maid  of  my  slumbers, 

Wooing  me  helpless  from  life  and  its  woes. 
Softly  I  swept  you,  and  notes  full  of  gladness 

Fell  on  my  heart  like  the  love  of  the  maid, 
Nameless  and  f  ameless,  but  tinged  with  the  sadness 

Rising  from  organs  by  seraph  hands  played. 

Clime  of  the  glory  and  greatness  of  freedom, 

Clime  of  the  fallen  illustrious  dead, 
Soldiers  are  mightier  when  country  shall  need  them 

Than  the  great  bards  who  in  harptones  have  bled, 
Yet  their  proud  numbers  shall  chime  in  the  glory 

Won  on  the  field  mid  the  roar  of  the  gun, 
'Raying  the  veteran  in  battles  grown  hoary, 

Clothing  with  glories  his  valor  has  won. 

Heroes  have  risen  and  died  in  their  glory, 

Soldiers  have  fought  for  their  country  and  fame, 
Clouds  have  arisen  like  death  in  thy  story, 

Glooming  thy  nation,  thy  freedom,  and  name ; 
Yet,  O  my  Harp !  in  an  Eden  I  found  thee, 

Crowned  with  the  glory  and  greatness  of  earth, 
Slavery  a  memory  that  shackled  and  bound  thee, 

Cursing  thy  nation  so  pure  in  its  birth. 

Harp  of  my  native  land,  harp  of  my  country, 

Years  have  been  going  like  rush  of  the  flood, 
Since  first  you  arose  in  your  might  and  your  glory, 

And  sang  a  new  nation  all  dabbled  in  blood ! 
Yet  victory  crowned  you,  and  proudly  there  sounded 

The  fame  of  the  heroes  and  warriors  that  fell, 
Thy  flag  rose  the  emblem  of  freedom  unbounded, 

Thy  country  the  haven  where  the  oppressed  might  dwell. 


182  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

You  chimed  with  the  drum  and  the  martial  note  sounding, 

Thy  songs  were  of  battles  and  warrings  for  right, 
Justice,  a  halo,  thy  cause  was  surrounding, 

Thy  banner  rose  fleckless  like  star  in  the  night. 
Thy  nation  and  freedom  grew  single  in  meaning, 

Thy  hearthstone  the  haven  of  hope  and  of  worth, 
The  bow  of  the  sky  was  immaculate  gleaming, 

With  none  of  distinction  for  blood  or  for  birth. 

The  Washingtons,  Sumners,  and  Greeleys  have  perished, 

The  Websters  and  Clays  are  but  dust  of  the  grave, 
Yet  country  has  crowned  them  and  memory  has  cherished 

Their  names  and  their  fames,  and  yet  proudly  they  wave 
On  the  Banner  of  Freedom,  and  never  their  glory 

To  fade  from  the  scroll  while  Columbia  shall  last, 
And  Time  makes  sublimer  the  gods  of  his  story, 

The  trump  of  the  angel  sounds  not  on  the  blast. 

May  the  good  of  all  nations  find  place  in  thy  country, 

Conservative  law  till  a  better  is  found, 
The  wisdom  of  all  ages  time-proven  and  hoary, 

The  justice  unshackled,  unfettered,  unbound ! 
The  star  of  thy  future  rise  bright  o'er  thy  greatness, 

With  Onward  thy  motto  till  time  is  no  more, 
The  Empress  of  nations  enlaureled  and  mateless, 

The  Freedom  of  freedoms  rise  chief  on  thy  shore. 

Harp  of  my  native  land !  Harp  of  my  country ! 

Sadly  I  bid  you  a  heartfelt  adieu, 
Ages  may  fall  that  shall  darken  your  glory, 

Fade  your  proud  banner  that  floats  in  the  blue  I 
Yet,  O  my  Country !  my  Harp !  and  my  Nation ! 

Proudly,  O  proudly,  my  blessing  is  made, 
May  you  arise  in  your  might  and  your  station, 

Winning  the  glories  that  time  cannot  fade ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON. 


"A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 

A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 

And  it  was  nothing  more." 

—"Peter  Bell,  a  Tale.1 


And  the  Legend  of  Gafton  rose  drear  on  the  wind, 

And  the  monks  and  the  nuns  in  their  beauty  of  mind, 

Were  telling  the  story  in  wildness  of  numbers, 

To  maid  and  to  matron,  while  up  from  their  slumbers, 

The  lords  of  the  manors  were  startled  with  wailing. 

Like  war  on  the  heath  the  tale  was  assailing 

The  ears  of  the  high,  and  to  those  lowly  faring, 

In  beauty  and  loveliness  mingled  and  staring, 

The  whole  seemed  a  fact,  tho'  the  fact  but  a  seeming, 

A  fragment  strange  born  in  wildness  and  dreaming, 

And  eloquence  of  speaker  alone  that  could  make  it 

A  truth  not  a  legend,  and  none  there  to  break  it 

But  speakers  of  beauty,  and  full  of  sweet  poesy, 

A  charm  or  two  added  if  telling  the  rosary 

Could  accent  the  word,  and  picture  the  meaning, 

That  hidden  there  seemed  like  a  gem-star  gleaming 

From  shell  of  an  oyster  or  tree-gnarled  nook, 

A  pebble  sweet  glimmering  in  soft  mountain  brook, 

The  love  that  heaves  soft  with  the  sigh  of  the  maid, 

The  flower  of  flowers  in  beauty  arrayed. 

ii. 

And  her  hair  was  as  dark  as  the  tomb  of  the  dead, 
A  maiden  as  fair  as  a  mortal  might  wed, 
And  her  accents  as  soft  as  the  moan  of  the  sea, 
Joined  legend  to  legend  in  loveliest  beauty, 
And  the  hearers  declared  in  the  voice  of  their  soul, 
"  'Twere  never  a  fairer  the  Legend  had  stole 

183 


184  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

From  seeming  absurdity,  and  beggared  untruth," 

As  she  told  it  to  maid,  to  matron  and  youth ; 

And  circled  her  round  the  merry-sad  band, 

For  the  wise  and  the  simple  were  joined  like  a  hand 

On  the  tomb  of  the  dead  by  the  willow-bound  grave, 

A  hand  within  hand  as  if  sadly  to  crave 

A  union  with  her  who  a  flower  of  earth, 

Was  struck  in  her  beauty,  her  bloom,  and  her  mirth, 

And  laid  with  the  dead  that  numbered  the  sod, 

The  dust  with  its  dust,  but  the  soul  with  its  God. 

in. 

A  legend  I  told  you,  but  a  story  in  telling, 
Shall  win  or  shall  lose  like  the  bell  in  its  knelling, 
If  tones  are  not  clear,  or  clear  in  the  ringing, 
If  tones  are  the  harp  with  its  moss-garlands  clinging, 
A  dwarf  or  a  beggar  would  take  from  the  story, 
And  legend  or  not  legend  were  gone  all  its  glory ; 
For  telling,  the  telling,  shall  name  the  true  poet, 
All  subjects  of  beauty  shall  seem  far  below  it. 

IV. 

Evangeline  sweet  but  a  fragment  of  history, 
The  language  and  telling  to  us  is  the  mystery ; 
But  Nature  the  Queen  shall  give  to  her  laureled 
A  language  and  measure  that  never  have  quarreled ; 
As  natural  as  love  the  notes  shall  be  sounded, 
As  natural  as  life  the  notes  shall  be  bounded 
By  beauties  that  Nature  long  stored  in  her  coffer, 
Till  the  Singer  of  Songs  took  up  with  her  offer, 
And  made  her  the  Goddess  of  earth  and  of  sky, 
Living  for  her,  and  for  her  living  to  die. 

v. 

'Twas  late  in  the  even,  and  the  sounds  of  the  Song, 
Had  gathered  a  curious,  a  many-hued  throng  ; 
And  the  faraway  nunnery  now  deep  in  the  night, 
Looked  pale  and  looked  gray  in  the  paler  moon  light ; 
And  the  notes  of  the  owl  came  there  with  a  boom, 
As  sad  as  the  bell  that  ringeth  to  doom, 
And  the  growl  of  the  cur  that  traversed  the  street, 
As  the  cries  of  the  gale  when  the  vessels  shall  meet, 
And  the  thump  of  the  wheel  o'er  the  rattling  pave, 
The  groans  of  the  dead  that  rose  from  the  grave. 

VI. 

The  passer-by  trod  but  a  ghost  in  the  night, 

And  the  robes  that  he  wore  were  robes  all  in  white ; 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  185 

The  house  and  the  tree,  and  the  neighboring  field, 
Took  shapes  of  the  dead  that  mimed  and  appealed, 
And  the  sound  of  the  leaf  might  waken  the  hour, 
So  unearthly  the  tale,  the  maid  in  her  power. 

VII. 

The  legend  was  old  as  the  hills  and  the  mountains, 
But  sparkled  afresh  like  foam  on  the  fountains, 
At  beck  of  the  poet  or  rhyme-wedded  maiden ; 
And  beauty  and  wildness  with  beauty  had  laden 
The  Legend  of  Gaf  ton,  till  the  wise  and  the  simple, 
Had  named  it  the  truth,  and  the  maid  with  the  wimple, 
Was  tearful  with  pity,  the  sailor  sun-browned 
Caught  at  the  teardrops  that  fell  to  the  ground ; 
And  the  lords  of  the  manors  were  sad  in  the  face, 
And  a  sadness  unusual  seemed  hung  o'er  the  place ; 
But  the  maid  of  the  Legend  with  rosary  in  hand, 
Like  a  darkened  Madonna  stood  Queen  of  the  land, 
And  the  voice  of  the  soul  was  the  voice  of  her  glory, 
And  added  a  charm  to  the  magic-told  story ; 
And  once  it  was  done,  and  the  paling  moonlight 
Had  kissed  the  high  tower  that  pierced  from  the  sis^t, 
The  skeptics  believers,  and  the  lowly  in  tears, 
And  a  halo  of  glory  in  beauty  appears, 
O'er  the  head  of  the  Songstress  in  May-views  arrayed, 
Enlaureled  the  Muse-Queen,  the  Bard's  charmf  ul  maid ! 

VIII. 

The  moon  and  the  sky  in  beauty  did  vie, 

And  the  stars  shone  out  with  a  light  in  their  eye, 

As  pure  and  as  holy  as  the  face  o'er  the  dead 

When  late  the  grim  Conqueror  has  been  on  his  raid ; 

And  the  city  that  stretched  away  to  the  east 

Lay  silent  and  pulseless  as  a  breathing  that's  ceast, 

As  the  form  of  the  fair  when  the  god  of  the  Deep 

Has  balmed  her  in  death,  eternal  in  sleep ; 

And  monasteries  and  nunneries  that  stretched  to  the  view. 

Looked  grim  in  the  halo  of  the  moon-wedded  blue ; 

And  the  scene  like  the  tomb  seemed  spreading  afar, 

And  roofed  by  the  moon  and  the  sky  and  the  star ; 

But  silent  as  death  in  the  chambers  of  life, 

Save  the  voice  of  the  nun  which  was  never  at  strife, 

So  sweet  and  so  charming,  so  modulent  there, 

So  rhythmic  and  soft,  ah !  ever  a  fair 

Like  the  Muse  of  the  Bard  in  his  Edens  of  air ! 

IX. 

An  age  ago  back,  three  centuries  or  more, 
When  the  "light  not  found  on  sea  or  on  shore," 


186  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Was  then  far  away  and  hid  in  a  gloom, 

Where  never  a  flower  or  a  weed  in  its  bloom, 

Where  never  the  Bible  had  power  to  sway, 

As  the  Bible  that  breathes  o'er  the  cradle  to-day ! 

And  the  Night  of  all  nights  hung  there  like  a  pall, 

O'er  cradle  and  father  and  mother  and  all, 

And  things  of  the  earth  and  things  of  the  sky 

Were  Goddess  and  God,  and  if  ever  to  die, 

To  these  were  the  prayers  breathed  mingled  with  wail, 

A  bigot-like  reign  with  gods  and  with  Baal, 

With  never  a  Being  that  reigned  in  the  air, 

A  Spirit  of  life  here,  there,  everywhere ! 

x. 

And  thus  did  the  Legend  so  beautifully  told 
Win  heart  of  the  maid  and  the  lordling  grown  old, 
The  high  and  the  low  and  the  fair  and  the  gay, 
All  gathered  there  like  the  flowers  of  May. 

XI. 

The  nun  chose  the  even,  for  stories  of  faith, 

Where  death  and  where  ghost,  the  Gorgan  and  wraith, 

Were    mingled,  commingled  and  mixed  in  the  tale 

Found  credence  more  easy,  and  a  maiden  so  pale 

Seemed  paler  and  paler  in  the  twilight  of  gloom, 

And  the  shadows  that  danced  seemed  the  shadows  of  doom; 

And  the  light  of  the  sky,  and  the  dark  of  the  earth, 

The  fittest  of  fittest  for  gnomes  in  their  birth ; 

For  the  mind  in  a  fury,  unnatural  and  wild, 

A  credence  would  have  of  a  four  years'  child, 

And  a  story  half  told  of  a  witch  and  a  death 

But  little  were  needed  to  dry  up  the  breath. 

And  shiver  the  frame  like  an  ocean-wrecked  ship, 

With  nor  moon  of  the  cloud,  nor  star-kist  lip ; 

So  the  hour  of  even  was  chosen  of  her, 

Where  breeze  nor  a  tree  nor  a  leaflet  did  stir, 

And  the  sounds  were  as  hollow  as  the  voice  in  the  prayer 

When  the  Spirit  of  God  nor  the  feelings  were  there, 

And  the  shadows  like  witches  were  mad  in  their  pranks, 

And  thousand  of  skeletons  in  a  shackling  that  clanks. 

XII. 

Like  the  sound  of  the  bell  when  passes  the  dead, 
Like  the  wail  of  the  widow  where  the  spirit  has  fled, 
Like  the  moan  of  the  sea  when  down  to  their  doom 
The  father  and  mother,  and  the  flowerets  in  bloom 
Have  gone  in  the  storm,  and  ocean  a  child, 
Is  weeping  and  wailing,  and  tossing,  and  wild, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  187 

As  life  of  the  wave  now  deep  in  the  grave 

Were  kin  of  his  kin,  and  the  waters  might  lave, 

Vainly,  ah  vainly !  the  place  where  they  sank, 

No  vestige  of  life,  the  ship,  nor  a  plank ; 

But  ripple  of  waters  that  soft  in  their  wail, 

Seemed  "dead  and  gone,  dead  and  gone,  this  is  their  tale  I" 

XIII. 

The  sky  was  as  fair  as  Beauty's  soft  cheek, 

And  the  moon  sailed  as  classic  as  face  of  the  Greek, 

And  the  calm  of  a  Christian  at  worship  and  ease, 

An  angel-boy  babe  at  prayers  on  his  knees, 

The  lover  that  smiles  on  the  face  of  his  bride, 

No  calmer  than  sky  or  the  move  of  the  tide ; 

But  stole  there  like  death  a  storm  in  the  wind, 

The  eye  of  the  moon  with  cloudlets  was  blind, 

The  heavens  wept  as  child  o'er  late  broken  toy, 

A  father  that  death-dews  have  shaped  to  a  boy ; 

And  the  face  of  the  sky  was  as  black  as  the  night, 

And  the  thunder  was  roaring,  and  flashed  on  the  sight 

The  forks  of  the  lightning,  and  the  sea  met  the  sky, 

While  havoc  and  ruin  seemed  maddening  by, 

Till  cannon  of  storm  rang  loud  on  the  ear, 

And  the  waves  of  the  ocean  stood  menacing  sheer, 

Till  lost  was  the  ship  in  the  trough  of  the  sea, 

Down,  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  wide,  wide  sea ! 

XIV. 

As  mournful  as  these  the  voice  of  the  nun 
Wailed  out  on  the  air  when  the  Legend  begun, 
And  the  tear  in  the  eye,  and  the  hue  on  the  cheek, 
Were  kin  of  the  picture  where  Christian  shall  speak 
To  those  of  the  sheepfold,  the  high  and  the  low, 
And  a  language  true  born  in  beauty  does  flow. 

xv. 

And  never  the  earth  so  fresh  and  so  fair  I 
And  Spring  had  burst  like  a  bud  everywhere ! 
And  the  flowers  of  Flora  in  rainbows  had  vied, 
And  the  fall  of  the  springtime  was  soft  as  the  tide 
That  laps  the  grand  shore  where  the  waters  have  died ; 
And  laughing  and  gay  as  the  brides  on  their  way 
To  crown  the  fair  maiden  the  Queen  of  the  May, 
The  Spring  had  come  in  with  scent  and  with  blooro 
With  joy  and  with  balm,  no  hint  of  the  doom 
The  story  needs  tell  ere  the  wane  of  the  moon ; 
They  crowned  her  the  maid  of  the  rosy-tipt  morn, 
And  many  a  sweet  face  shaped  anger  and  scorn, 


188  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Till  fairly  well  known  her  virtues  and  heart, 

The  anger  and  scorn  were  fashioned  to  art, 

That  breathes  from  Madonnas  of  earth  and  of  sky, 

A  picture  that  paints  a  heaven- won  beauty ; 

A  scene  where  lilies  and  flowers  in  bloom 

Throw  sweetness  and  joy  o'er  the  dark  mouldered  tomb, 

And  Paradise  there  Elysian  and  fair, 

Seemed  won  from  the  realms  of  sky  and  of  air. 

XVI. 

The  castle  and  nunneries  and  mountains  around, 

Stretched  far  to  the  east,  the  west,  and  the  sound 

Of  battle  and  fray  were  yet  on  the  ear, 

And  the  mountains  rose  there  in  majesty  sheer, 

And  the  knights  and  the  warriors  had  gone  to  the  fray, 

And  axes  were  ringing  in  dawn  of  the  day ; 

O'erstrewn  were  the  fields  with  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

And  warrior  and  chief  in  their  madness  were  flying, 

The  steed  and  the  stallion  o'er  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

O'er  the  dead  and  the  dying,  but  heroes  arose 

From  fields  of  the  dead,  and  the  fray  with  its  woes. 

And  Malcolm  the  Brave  enlaureled  again, 

And  the  fair  Maid  of  Gafton,  the  Bride  of  the  main, 

Hose  wed  in  the  song  of  singers  around, 

While  the  bays  and  the  garlands  in  beauty  were  bound. 

SONG. 

1. 
And  Malcolm,  great  Malcolm  at  head  of  his  clan, 

Met  the  foe  on  the  heath  and  the  moor, 
And  heroes  and  warriors  that  fought  in  the  van, 

O  when  can  their  glory  be  o'er ! 
The  Chief  of  Gleneffer  rose  grim  at  the  head 

Of  the  foes  as  they  marched  o'er  the  vale, 
And  the  knights  of  Gleneffer  fell  there  with  the  dead, 

Cleft  through  the  helm  or  the  mail ! 
But  the  dead  of  great  Malcolm  were  heaped  in  the  pile 

That  spread  'neath  the  eye  of  the  maid, 
As  Bride  of  the  Sea  no  look  could  defile. 

She  stood  in  her  beauty  arrayed. 
Her  eye  on  the  field  when  the  battle  was  o'er, 

And  axe  nor  a  sabre  arose, 
The  fallen  flag  the  sabre-blade  tore 

That  gleamed  in  the  hand  of  the  foes. 

2. 

They  sing  her  proud  beauty  as  sweet  as  the  May, 
And  crown  her  the  Bride  of  the  Sea, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  186 

And  all  that  came  prancing  enlaureled  and  gay, 

Shall  bow  to  her  magical  beauty ! 
Great  Malcolm  the  Conqueror  of  field  and  of  wave, 

Has  claimed  her  the  bride  of  all  brides, 
And  many  a  warrior  lies  low  in  his  grave, 

While  Malcolm  to  Victory  rides ! 
Cuthbert  and  Darlney  the  chief  of  his  foes, 

Are  silent  'neath  flowerets  above, 
The  moments  were  long,  and  heavy  the  blows 

Where  the  chief  and  the  chieftain  chief  strove ; 
And  Hildred,  the  Bold,  of  the  border-famed  clan, 

His  blood  to  the  Zephyrs  was  strewn, 
And  Hartley,  the  Swordsman,  that  fought  as  he  ran, 

Was  dead  'mid  the  flowers  of  June ! 


For  Malcolm  was  proud  of  his  skill  and  his  art, 

And  tempted  the  high  and  the  low 
To  a  bout  for  the  maid  that  wove  o'er  his  heart 

A  flower-bespangled  bow ; 
And  came  from  the  border  and  came  from  the  sea, 

The  mountain,  the  hill,  and  the  dale, 
The  knight  and  the  chief,  and  the  flower  of  chivalry, 

All  clad  in  their  shimmering  mail. 
The  Count  of  Gleneff er  the  first  to  the  fray, 

But  the  Count  of  Gleneffer  arose 
But  to  stagger  to  death  ere  the  eve  of  the  day,— 

His  grave  where  the  wild-flower  blows ! 
And  Alfred,  the  Hind,  his  blood  for  the  Chief 

Ean  useless  as  wars  in  the  land ; 
The  page  of  his  history  has  blood  on  the  leaf, 

And  Kust  is  guard  of  his  brand ! 

4. 

But  a  ship  that  sails  o'er  the  mirrory  sea, 

Comes  sailing  and  sailing  and  sailing, 
Her  wings  like  a  bird's  are  spread  in  their  beauty, 

But  nor  signal-gun  is  hailing ; 
For  the  ship  and  the  crew  seem  ancient  as  time 

And  the  harbor  a  harbor  of  doubt, 
But  the  baying  of  cannon  across  the  brine 

Like  war  in  the  sky  blurted  out 
From  the  ports  of  her  side  as  she  rode  o'er  the  wave 

In  the  flush  of  the  early-rayed  morn, 
And  the  shores  were  hid  with  the  gay  and  the  grave, 

As  on  she  came  sailing,  and  on ! 
The  flag  6f  the  Pirate  rose  high  on  the  mast, 

As  the  eye  caught  her  hue  and  her  style, 


190  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

But  a  signal  of  peace  waved  high  in  the  blast, 
Yet  Suspicion  was  there  with  a  smile. 

5. 
The  anchor  fell  down,  and  a  boat  came  ashore 

With  the  Chi^f  of  the  pirate  band, 
And  the  words  that  he  said  no  truce  did  implore 

Of  Malcolm,  the  King  of  the  land. 
The  boat  and  the  pebble  have  kissed  by  the  bank 

That  skirted  the  tossing  wave, 
And  the  chains  of  her  prow  like  a  warning  did  clank 

As  the  doom  of  the  galley-slave ; 
And  his  voice  was  as  sweet  as  the  Siren  of  fate 

That  reigns  o'er  the  realms  of  love, 
And  Malcolm,  great  Malcolm,  shall  find  him  his  mate 

By  the  sea,  or  the  hill,  or  the  grove ; 
And  his  dress  was  as  rich  as  the  garbs  of  the  East, 

His  action  as  supple  and  light 
As  the  man  of  the  ring,  the  hind  at  the  feast, 

A  chieftain  in  war-garb  bedight. 

6. 
His  long  raven  locks  o'er  his  beauty  fell  down 

Like  the  veil  of  a  magical  hue, 
But  the  dark  of  his  eye  when  flashed  thro'  a  frown, 

Of  nothing  of  pity  did  sue ; 
And  he  leapt  to  the  shore,  and  brief  in  a  word: 

"The  Bride  of  the  Sea  shall  be  mine  I 
And  the  brook  and  the  rill  and  the  song  of  the  bird, 

Shall  carry  the  tale  o'er  the  brine !" 
And  the  crowd  stood  aghast,  but  loud  on  the  blast : 

"Sir  Malcolm  shall  meet  thee  alone ! 
The  die  of  thy  life  in  an  hour  will  be  cast, 

And  thy  name  and  thy  glory  be  flown !" 
And  there  on  the  shore  with  the  ship  in  the  bay, 

A  hero  and  hero  are  met, 
And  their  names  and  their  skill  are  sung  in  the  lay, 

For  who  might  bravery  forget ! 

XVII. 

And  the  night  and  the  morning  in  beauty  were  wed, 
But  Malcolm  the  Brave  and  the  Pirate  were  fled, 
And  the  crowd  in  a  wonder  were  scanning  the  shore 
Where  the  light  of  great  Sol  in  beauty  did  pour, 
For  the  night  was  away,  and  the  light  of  the  day 
Was  soft  on  the  flower,  the  brook  and  the  spray ; 
But  nothing  of  Malcolm,  the  Maid  or  the  Chief, 
Yet  blood  of  the  contest  was  fresh  on  the  leaf. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  191 

xvm. 

As  neither  was  conquered  so  neither  might  claim 
The  Bride  of  the  Sea  by  the  might  of  his  reign, 
And  the  even  had  closed  with  the  morrow  at  dawn 
To  test  o'er  again  the  fray  of  the  morn ; 
cut  the  night  and  the  morning  were  hardly  at  war 
In  light  and  in  shade  at  force  of  her  law,* 
When  the  sailor,  the  chief,  the  hard  and  the  page, 
The  young  and  the  gay,  the  seer  and  the  sage, 
Were  thick  on  the  banks  as  a  ship  had  gone  down, 
And  bodies  were  swaying  with  waves  as  the  town 
Had  heaved  its  wild  breast  for  the  dying  and  dead, 
And  ruffled  the  waves  where  the  spirits  had  fled. . 

XIX. 

But  vainly,  ah  vainly,  the  search  that  they  made ! 
And  nothing  but  waters  in  beauty  arrayed, 
To  answer  the  queries  that  rose  to  the  breast, 
And  shaped  into  cries  tho'  there  unredressed. 

xx. 

While  the  ship  like  the  fog  that  rose  from  the  sea, 
Was  craft  of  the  mind  in  remembered  beauty, 
And  the  past  but  a  dream  if  the  tale  were  of  one, 
But  the  eyes  of  the  many  when  the  contest  begun, 
Were  wild  on  the  scene  as  the  blood  of  the  dead 
Had  dabbled  the  earth  where  the  flowers  were  wed. 
But  a  dream  or  a  fact  no  warriors  were  there 
To  fight  like  a  Titan  for  maid  in  despair, 
And  the  mountains  and  hills  that  circled  around, 
The  roar  of  the  waters  that  hopelessly  drowned 
The  sounds  of  the  voice,  were  augur  of  none, 
And  pierced  from  the  cloud  the  eye  of  the  sun, 
High  risen  above,  for  the  day  was  begun. 

XXI. 

The  freshness  of  morning  was  sweet  in  the  air, 
And  birdlings  and  flowers  seemed  here,  everywhere, 
And  the  sigh  of  the  zephyr  was  soft  as  the  song 
That  mothers  shall  sing  when  their  babes  are  late  born ; 
And  the  flush  of  the  morning  on  the  cheek  of  the  maid, 
Fell  sweet  from  the  heaven  and  lovingly  stayed ; 
And  the  scene  in  its  beauty  seemed  wooing  its  bride, 
And  all  to  the  song  of  the  sweet  laving  tide ; 
And  wherefore  the  blood  of  a  hero  to  shed 
Where  Nature  was  'rayed  like  a  sweet  flowerbed! 
Away  I  and  away !  'tis  the  gloom  of  the  night, 
Where  lilies  and  flowerets  are  dead  with  the  blight, 
*  Nature. 


192  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  drear  Desolation  seems  grimly  around, 

With  music  nor  cadence  but  discords  the  sound! 

Where  woe  and  despair  are  wed  in  a  gloom, 

And  nothing  seems  there  but  the  grave  and  the  tomb ; 

'Tis  here  that  the  blood  of  a  hero  should  fall,  * 

For  blood  is  too  precious,  is  life,  and  is  all, 

And  he  that  shall  raise  the  blade  of  the  brave, 

Deserves  but  the  laurels  that  twine  o'er  his  grave ; 

For  never  was  hand  that  spilleth  the  blood 

In  fray  or  in  war,  that  ran  like  the  flood, 

Fitter  for  glory  than  he  who  has  stood 

In  scorn  of  all  war,  and  anger  withstood ; 

For  War  is  a  Murder  that  time  makes  a  right, 

But  never  was  juster  tho'  nations  may  write 

Its  name  on  the  page  of  their  reign,  and  e'er  own 

It  one  of  the  brotherhood  where  nations  have  grown 

To  power  and  empire,  and  easy  to  war 

Are  led  by  their  jealousy,  hatred,  a  law 

That  caters  to  passions  that  reign  in  the  mind, 

Where  nothing  of  purity  or  beauty  to  find. 

XXII. 

And  thus  was  as  vain  as  a  search  in  the  dark 
For  gold  or  a  diamond,  or  a  fashion  of  art, 
And  morning  was  waning,  and  noon  like  a  god 
Was  stealing  with  time,  and  the  tower  with  the  rod 
In  twelve  golden  notes  was  giving  the  hour, 
And  the  sun  on  the  shaft  that  pierced  from  the  tower,. 
Was  witness  that  time  and  time's  keeper  were  right, 
As  true  as  the  compass  that  moves  in  the  night ; 
And  the  crowd  that  had  tired  as  the  hours  grew  on, 
Were  all  from  the  shore,  and  the  place  as  forlorn 
As  the  field  of  the  dead  when  the  battle  is  o'er, 
And  life  to  the  hero  no  hand  might  restore. 

XXIII. 

But  the  Legend  has  gone,  and  the  tale  is  as  plain 
As  a  star  once  concealed,  but  now  in  its  reign 
Makes  light  of  the  darkness  that  shaded  its  face, 
And  crooked  the  search  in  beauty  does  trace 
The  first  and  the  last,  the  half  and  the  whole, 
Where  inception  and  close  together  may  roll. 

XXIV. 

And  thus  might  the  reader  be  told  in  a  line,  -„ 
Tho'  voice  be  as  mournful  as  song  of  the  pine  x 
But  the  language  of  poesy  has  nothing  in  store 
But  dallying  like  love  on  the  sea-beaten  shore, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  193 

A  trick  or  two  now,  a  fact  now  again, 

A  dallying,  dallying,  and  teasing  of  pain, 

A  coming  to  terms,  a  mocking  at  truth, 

In  a  word,  the  action  of  a  maid  to  a  youth, 

Where  Hymen  shall  reign  like  a  god  in  the  sky, 

And  the  love  that  speaks  out  from  the  love-wedded  eye, 

Shall  tell  the  truth  half,  yet  doubting  may  go 

Till  the  priest  shall  arrive  with  a  balm  for  his  woe. 

XXV. 

And  the  contest  that  raged  on  the  edge  of  the  sea 

Disclosed  but  the  powers  of  the  chiefs  in  their  beauty, 

And  love  that  was  waiting  for  end  of  the  fray, 

Saw  chief  meet  the  chief  in  battle  array, 

Saw  warriors  that  stood  as  twins  to  the  crowd, 

The  plumage  of  both  undaggled,  unbowed, 

Till  sabres  were  hurled  from  hand  of  the  braves, 

And  the  flag  of  the  Malcolm  the  Pirate  chief  waves, 

O'er  the  heroes  that  heroes  are  heroes  again, 

For  each  is  the  master,  and  masters  may  reign, 

Since  each  claims  the  other  his  equal  in  war, 

And  contest  is  o'er  by  equality's  law ; 

Yet  the  morrow  shall  show  them  again  in  the  fray ; 

But  the  shadows  were  fleeting,  and  the  dawn  of  the  day 

Found  chieftain  and  chieftain  as  mist  of  the  bay ; 

And  the  crowd  but  the  errand  that  takes  to  the  mine 

Where  gold  nor  an  opal  shall  flash  on  the  eyne, 

And  back  thro'  the  noon-hour  they  hied  them  away, 

With  warrior  nor  chieftain,  the  Maid  of  the  fray. 

XXVI. 

But  the  accents  of  madness  are  wild  on  the  gale, 
And  a  voice  of  deep  augur  makes  bold  to  assail 
The  ears  of  the  lowly,  the  proud,  and  the  gay, 
With  "Returning  from  stroll  'neath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
I  saw  the  black  ship  on  the  breast  of  the  wave, 
As  wedded  to  darkness  as  death  to  the  grave, 
And  proud  of  my  Malcolm  in  the  fray  of  the  morn, 
I  hasted  along  like  a  ghost  in  the  dawn, 
And  soon  in  the  roar  of  the  ocean-beat  shore, 
A  sight  met  my  gaze  where  softly  did  pour 
The  rays  of  pale  Luna,  the  Queen  of  the  night, 
Showing  ship  of  the  pirate  now  black  on  the  sight ; 
And  a  sign  on  a  road  where  one  has  gone  two, 
I  motionless  stood  where  the  blue  met  the  blue, 
And  down  from  the  side  of  the  moon-lav6d  craft 
Had  slidden  a  boat,  and  the  demons  had  laughed, 
Else  my  mind  in  a  fog,  a  gloomy  spell  rapt, 
O'erwrought  had  become,  and  the  wavelets  snow-capt, 
13 


194  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Seemed  things  of  a  world  where  motion  was  life, 
At  war,  in  a  jumble,  and  vainly  at  strife ; 
And  thousand  of  shapes  were  wrought  of  the  wave, 
And  the  cries  of  the  dead  when  the  waters  did  lave 
The  grand  old  shore  that  spread  at  my  feet, 
And  demons  were  there  and  seeming  did  meet. 

XXVII. 

"As  cautious  as  thief  thro'  the  portals  of  night, 

I  stole  by  the  shore  in  the  moon's  pale  light, 

And  hiding  my  form  behind  a  high  cleft, 

I  turned  to  the  right  nor  turned  to  the  left, 

But  steady  before  my  eyes  on  the  ship, 

I  gazed  with  wonder,  while  the  star  near  the  lip 

Of  the  horned  night  Queen  looked  pale  from  the  shroud 

Of  my  fair  Lady's  rays ;  but  the  breakers  were  loud, 

And  the  star-tented  dome  flew  quick  from  my  view, 

And  naught  but  the  ship  on  the  wide  watery  blue. 

XXVIII. 

"The  scream  of  the  sea-mew,  the  flight  of  the  bird, 
Was  all  save  the  waters  the  deep  silence  heard, 
_And  wrapt  in  my  wonder  like  a  sheet  of  the  dead, 
I  heard  nor  a  sound,  nor  a  word  that  was  said ; 
But  the  move  of  the  boat  was  bold  on  my  gaze, 
And  now  by  the  shore  at  its  moorings  may  graze. 
There  were  three  in  the  boat,  and  three  on  the  shore 
Are  stealing  along  where  the  waters  may  pour 
Their  thunder  in  vain,  and  I  like  a  shade 
Was  close  on  their  track,  when,  lo !  a  vailed  maid 
Stole  out  from  the  shadows  of  a  huge  boulder  there, 
And,  wonders,  my  Malcolm !  the  maiden  so  fair, 
Wa.s  the  Maid  of  the  Sea  with  nor  sign  of  despair ! 

XXIX 

"My  eyes  were  as  large  as  a  ghost  there  arrayed 
Had  risen  from  death.    No  tender  voice  prayed, 
But  the  tones  of  a  Beauty  in  a  lover's  sweet  wail, 
Fell  strange  on  my  ear  as  when  there  assail 
The  mind's  mad  voicings  when  graves  are  around, 
And  the  night  like  a  tomb  in  silence  profound 
Gives  ear  to  the  leaf  that  stirs  on  the  ground." 

xxx. 

"My  Malcolm  may  rival  the  great  Pirate  chief, 
And  cause  all  the  Malcolms  to  come  to  their  grief, 
But  the  Maid  of  the  wavelets  that  tumble  to  spray, 
Was  sung  a  sweet  song  in  the  rise  of  the  ray ; 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  195 

Such  a  song  as  a  maid  shall  know  on  the  day 
.    When  Love  comes  a-peeping  in  battle  array, 
With  buckler  and  sword  and  quiver  in  trim, 
A  fair  maiden's  heart  in  his  picture  may  limn ! 
So,  adieu  to  the  Malcolm,  the  Chief  of  the  Sword, 
Thy  bird  is  away,  and  loving,  has  soared!" 

XXXI. 

"Leonie  I  oh  Leonie !  is  thy  love  so  fair  and  true, 

That  landed  chief,  that  banded  chief,  can  sail  the  watery  blue, 

That  landed  chief,  that  banded  chief,  can  love  and  find  no  mate, 

But  wanders  far  like  twirling  star  in  early  morn  and  late, 

That  meets  the  chief,  the  pirate  chief,  upon  the  pebbly  shore, 

And  proves  his  skill  a  laughing  rill  that  tempts  her  but  the  more 

To  run  away  in  even's  ray  like  love  that  found  its  god, 

And  chose  the  chief,  the  pirate  chief,  that  sails  the  waters  broad ! 

Leonie !  oh  Leonie !  a  risk  it  is  you  run ! 

The  moon  is  bright  with  merry  light  it  borrowed  from  the  sun ; 

But  when  the  day  is  fresh  and  gay  and  we  are  out  to  sea, 

My  cageless  bird,  my  barless  bird  will  crave  her  sacred  liberty ; 

But  ship  nor  crew  in  even's  dew  can  hold  no  haven  shore, 

And  weeping  maid  in  love  arrayed  shall  vainly,  vainly  'plore 

For  peace  of  heart  that  ne'er  can  start  with  Beauty  lost  in  tears, 

The  chief  est  boon  aneath  the  moon,  the  cadence  of  the  spheres, 

And  pirate  chief  in  wedded  grief  shall  tell  the  blue-eyed  maid, 

That  love's  the  best  when  once  conf  est  and  ne'er  has  vainly  strayed ! " 

XXXII. 

"Oh  Malta,  my  chief !  the  rose  and  the  leaf 

Are  mingled  no  more  than  the  love 
That  swells  to  my  heart,  the  heart  of  my  chief, 

The  stars  that  shimmer  above ; 
And  yet  you  would  say  in  the  death  of  the  day, 

My  love  is  a  love  in  a  mask, 
And  as  soon  as  the  day  will  vanish  away, 

Else  prove  in  its  name  but  a  task." 

XXXIII. 

"Leonie,  Leonie,  my  star-bespangled  maid, 
And  ever  truest  love  that  vainly,  vainly  strayed  ? 
But  Cupid's  blind  and  half  inclined 

To  make  a  sad  mistake, 
And  sometimes  blooms  and  full  assumes 

What  maidens  must  not  take 
For  perfect  love  the  god  above 

Would  cherish  to  the  end, 
And  twine  it  there  with  roses  rare, 

Outblushing  that  will  blend." 


196  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

XXXIV. 

"The  venture's  mine,  my  Malta  brave, 

And  I  alone  to  prove 
That  never  flower  above  a  grave 

Is  sadder  than  the  love 
That  finds  no  mate  but  long  does  wait 

Like  nun  in  hues  of  black, 
For  nameless  things  that  shape  to  hate, 

And  many  a  virtue  lack." 

xxxv. 

"Then  hie  thee  hence  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
And  pirate  chief  shall  name  thee  bride !" 

xxxvi. 

"And  there  like  a  statue  with  dew  on  my  garb, 

As  motionless  now  as  Death  with  his  barb 

Had  pierced  to  my  life  that  sprang  to  my  heart, 

I  stood  in  the  shade  while  the  lovers  did  part ; 

And  the  two  rowed  the  boat,  while  the  chief  and  his  bride, 

Went  happily  o'er  the  sweet  laving  tide ; 

And  the  blue  of  the  sea  kissed  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

In  distance  that  gloomed  in  reach  of  the  eye ; 

And  the  ship  and  the  crew,  and  the  pirate  chief  too, 

Were  lost  to  the  sight  on  the  wide  watery  blue." 

xxxvn. 

And  the  crowd  were  as  statues  in  the  vail  of  the  night, 
All  staring  and  wearing  a  mien  of  affright, 
While  the  nun  of  the  Legend  like  a  music  that  ceast, 
Gave  silence  no  voice,  but  sweetly  released 
The  minds  of  the  crowd  from  the  tension  of  thought, 
And  stood  like  a  picture  by  Titian  hands  wrought. 

XXXVIII. 

But  yet  the  crowd  in  voices  loud 

Were  pleading  for  the  end, 
But  maiden  there  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  flowers  that  blush  and  blend, 
Now  held  her  peace  a-like  a  Greece 

Once  living,  but  is  dead, 
Now  held  her  peace  a-like  a  Greece 

Where  life  the  throne  has  fled, 
And  great  emotion  as  the  ocean, 

Seemed  heaving  in  her  breast ; 
And  if  the  night  were  glowing  bright 

Her  features  had  confessed 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  197 

An  inner  dread  that  darkly  wed 

To  love  and  life  in  woe, 
And  every  throb  comes  there  to  rob, 

And  cause  the  tears  to  flow, 
And  things  the  heart  shall  ever  mark 

Where  maid  has  met  a  youth, 
And  love  and  life  in  mingled  strife, 

Have  proved  a  bane  in  sooth, 
And  Cupid-god  with  flowered  rod 

Stands  dancing  on  the  throne, 
With  jeer  and  laugh  that  was  but  half 

The  maiden's  bitter  moan ; 
But  moon  of  night,  nor  searching  light, 

Had  pictured  on  her  face 
As  sun  of  sky  in  fiery  eye 

Would  limn  and  boldly  trace ; 
So  moon  nor  night,  nor  searching  wight, 

Nor  any  twinkling  star, 
Could  paint  the  thought  now  vainly  caught, 

So  seeming  near  and  far ; 
But  bowed  she  stood  with  wimpled  hood, 

A  statue  chiseled  fair, 
The  mountains  round  as  yet  profound,  >. 

The  sentinels  circled  there, 
The  bannered  clouds,  the  Queen  in  shrouds, 

Were  high  in  domed  blue, 
And  breezes' soft  that  lilies  doft, 

A  fragrance  there  did^trew ; 
And  yet  the  crowd  as  if  endowed 

With  patience  of  a  god, 
Were  calm  and  still  as  voiceless  rill, 

A  grave  with  flowered  sod ; 
But  night  grew  on,  and  dappled  dawn 

Would  soon  blush  o'er  the  place, 
When  tree  nor  brook  nor  Naiad,  rook, 

Such  gloominess  could  trace, 
And  maid  and  tale  would  vain  assail 

The  throng  so  charmed  now, 
For  night  alone  in  seeming  moan, 

With  beauty  could  endow 
The  Legend  there  so  sadly  fair 

With  charms  of  reddest  gold, 
And  make  a  word  the  rarest  bird 

That  swam  above  the  wold ; 
And  thus  should  maid  in  night  arrayed, 

Quick  paint  the  picture  all, 
For  once  the  morn  should  gaily  dawn, 

The  Legend's  charm  would  fall. 


198  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

xxxix. 

But  silence  there  as  free  from  care 

As  lover  with  his  maid, 
A  potent  spell  like  funeral  knell, 

A  holy  calmness  laid 
Upon  the  old  where  wrinkles  told 

The  busy  sweep  of  years ; 
Upon  the  young  where  beauty  clung 

'Mid  laughter's  joyous  tears ; 
Upon  the  maid  in  love  arrayed, 

The  youth  of  Cupid's  wile ; 
The  high,  the  low,  the  queen,  the  beau, 

And  never  could  revile 
A  stranger  tongue  where  sweetly  clung 

The  faith  a  Christian  claims, 
For  wrinkled  sage  o'er  classic  page, 

And  man  of  storied  brains, 
The  listening  crowd  no  senate  bowed 

To  man  of  mighty  tongue, 
But  sweetly  there  the  plain  and  fair 

As  thoughtless  there  were  flung, 
But  ear  of  faith  tho'  but  a  wraith 

That  shot  athwart  the  gloom, 
And  lent  a  charm  the  least  of  harm 

Where  weeds  and  flowers  in  bloom, 
Made  picture  sweet  that  could  but  greet 

The  thinking  mind  and  all, 
F/>r  Faith  was  there  with  seraph  air, 

And  let  her  meekness  fall 
Upon  the  nun  whose  Legend  won 

The  skeptic  and  the  proud, 
For  she  the  Muse  like  beaded  dews 

Upon  the  lily  bowed, 
Was  full  of  beauty  and  her  duty 

Painted  poet's  scenes, 
And  but  her  art  fresh  from  the  heart 

In  Poesy's  laughing  sheens, 
Was  all  she  claimed  where  Genius  reigned, 

And  rose  the  king  of  all ; 
And  thus  the  say  and  not  the  lay 

In  flowery  garbs  to  fall, 
To  win  the  mind  where  unconfined 

Artistic  numbers  reign, 
And  choicest  phrase  in  freshest  bays 

Puts  in  a  matchless  claim. 

XL. 

And  love  and  its  mate  with  the  hope  of  a  child, 
Was  sailing  the  sea  o'er  the  waters  wild, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  199 

But  the  chief  of  Gleneff  er  in  the  city  of  death, 

No  rivalry  now,  and  the  winds  with  their  hreath 

Might  sigh  thro'  the  flowerets  that  waved  o'er  his  tomb, 

And  he  nor  the  Darlney  v/ould  rush  to  their  doom ; 

And  Malcolm  the  Great,  oh  where  was  he  laid ! 

Had  the  chief  of  the  sea  in  his  bitterness  slayed 

This  noble,  this  chieftain  in  anger  and  hate ; 

For  the  fray  that  he  fought  then  arising  his  mate  ? 

But  on  they  flew  thro'  the  fog  and  the  night, 

All  under  the  eye  of  the  paler  moonlight, 

And  the  tale  of  great  Malcolm  rang  out  in  the  song, 

Of  the  Chief  of  the  crew  as  the  ship  flew  along. 

XLI. 
SONG. 

And  the  even  is  bright  as  the  bride  in  her  white 

When  the  bell  of  the  wedding  is  rung, 
And  maidens  are  there  all  flowery  bedight, 

The  choral  symphony  sung ; 
The  stars  with  their  flame  in  beauty  proclaim 

The  night  is  spread  like  a  wing, 
Across  the  sky,  where  softly  by 

The  constellations  sing ; 
The  hush  of  the  hour  proclaimeth  the  power 

Of  potent  god  of  night, 
And  the  sweetest  time  in  any  clime, 

Is  arrayed  in  its  starry  light. 

XLII. 
And  the  chief  with  his  bride  across  the  tide 

Is  hailing  his  haven  home, 
And  the  maid  in  her  white  arrayed  like  the  night 

To  starrier  climes  has  flown, 
For  the  chief  in  his  grief  seems  buried  afar 

In  a  tomb  of  the  voiceless  dead, 
With  light  of  the  night  nor  any  star, 

No  wold  where  the  flowers  are  wed ; 
For  the  fray  of  the  morn  came  madly  on, 

And  again  the  chief  met  the  chief, 
And  the  sword  of  great  Malcolm  that  cut  thro'  the  dawn, 

Was  grim  in  my  breast  as  a  sheath ! 

XLHI. 
And  they  took  my  corse  with  voices  hoarse, 

And  dragged  it  across  the  wold, 
To  the  yard  where  the  bard  the  good  and  the  starred, 

In  searchless  sleep  were  cold ; 


200  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  Malcolm  the  chief  with  the  rose  and  the  leaf, 

Had  twined  my  lily-white  maid, 
And  the  bells  were  rung,  the  psean  sung, 

For  Hymen  had  come  and  stayed. 
A  wedding  there !  a  burial  here ! 

Music,  and  solemn  sound ; 
A  smile  with  smile,  but  never  a  tear 

For  chieftain  poppy  bound. 

XLIV. 
And  the  fame  of  great  Malcolm  both  far  and  wide, 

With  merry  morris  rang, 
And  hero  then  a  hero's  bride 

From  merriest  harpstring  sang, 
But  the  chieftain  proud  from  the  Emerald  Isle, 

Had  heard  of  Malcolm's  fame, 
And  o'er  the  waters  in  doughty  style 

The  hero's  bride  to  claim, 
He  sailed  one  night  all  brave  bedight, 

And  "when  uprose  the  sun," 
He  stood  accoutred  for  the  fight, 

Where  late  uprose  the  sun.  •;,' 

XLV. 

We  met  by  the  waves  that  seemed  but  the  graves 

Of  nations  of  rhymeless  dead. 
And  the  organ  tone  of  the  sea  in  its  moan 

In  volumed  voice  was  wed 
To  mightier  things  where  proudly  clings 

The  loftier  brain  of  man, 
And  soundless  sounds  o'er  deep  profounds 

In  grandest  beauty  ran, 
For  hero's  thought  for  acme  fame 

Would  cleave  beyond  the  sight, 
And  vaster,  grander  beauties  claim 

Than  spread  across  the  light. 

XL  VI. 

The  swords  were  crossed,  and  scabbards  bossed 

Made  music  in  the  soul 
Of  him  who  proud,  with  love  endowed, 

For  hero  that  'rays  the  Scroll, 
Feels  all  the  love  a  poet  knows 

When  Nature  crowns  him  Bard ! 
And  dullest  thing  to  music  flows, 

Is  diademed  and  starred ! 
And  every  heart  at  Malcolm's  art, 

Was  beating  high  with  pride, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON  201 

And  pirate  there  might  vainly  tear 
The  scabbard  from  his  side. 


Shy  Victory  rose,  but  rose  in  vain, 

And  rose  a  star  to  set, 
And  either  showed  a  diadem 

Where  matchless  beauties  met  ; 
And  swords  were  tossed  to  bloodless  sod, 

And  plumes  were  bowfid  low  ; 
'Twas  each  the  other  claimed  a  god, 

And  Victory  spanned,  a  bow  ; 
And  cheers  rang  out,  the  song  and  shout, 

For  the  fray  had  found  its  eve, 
And  pirate  chief  like  autumned  leaf, 

O'er  fallen  pride  did  grieve  I" 

XL  VIII. 

"Oh,  Malta,  you  know,  the  hind  and  roe 

Would  love  their  freedom  the  more, 
Than  golden  den  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Upon  a  Lydian  shore, 
Where  flowers  and  trees,  and  social  ease 

Shall  cloy  with  endless  calm, 
And  Man,  an  Idler,  give  his  fees 

For  every  little  charm. 
The  first  a  love  that  stars  above 

Shall  crown  with  endless  peace, 
The  last  a  name  where  every  claim  : 

O  Death  !  be  my  release  I" 

XLIX. 
"Leonie,  oh  Leonie  ! 

Thy  love  is  matchless  true, 
And  never  purer  maiden 

Aneath  the  starry  blue  ! 
And  heart  of  mine  shall  smite  me, 

If  ever  fall  a  time 
When  all  thy  days  with  pirate  chief 

Shall  fall  from  perfect  chime  ; 
But  life  of  ours  with  wreck  and  spoil, 

Shall  teach  thy  heart  a  woe, 
And  all  shall  seem  a  tangled  dream, 

Where  bitterest  tears  shall  flow." 


"Then  Leonie,  then  Leonie, 
The  Maid  of  the  crested  Sea, 


202  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAKDALE. 

Shall  lend  thy  life  a  softer  way, 

And  Conscience  give  its  liberty, 
Thy  hand  restrain  when  mighty  god 

Of  the  loud  and  searchless  deep, 
Has  stamped  his  rage  upon  the  waves 

That  deepest  then  may  speak, 
And  mingled  nations  hurled  dead 

As  freight  upon  the  beach  !" 

LI. 
"Thy  words  are  solace  to  the  soul, 

And  forge  a  golden  chain, 
For  maiden  presence  in  the  world 

Unrivaled  beauties  claim, 
And  but  for  woman's  presence 

Among  the  haunts  of  life, 
A  pirate's  breast  were  peace 

To  chaos  there,  and  strife  !— 
The  crowd  had  gone,  and  Malcolm  chief 

Was  king  among  his  friends, 
And  blood  that  dyed  the  flowered  leaf, 

A  mimic  foray  lends, 
To  mind  of  him  who  sailed  the  sea 

To  test  this  matchless  skill, 
And  claim  the  bride  in  Beauty's  pride, 

Ere  Hymen  had  his  will ; 
And  thus  a  word  in  Malcolm's  ear 

In  the  tongue  of  the  pirate  clan, 
Taught  hour  and  time  in  even's  prime 

Where  mountain  breezes  fan, — 
And,— tender  maid  !  the  Malcolm  chief 

Is  dead  among  the  dew  ! 
His  mound  the  maple  autumn  leaf 

Aneath  the  bannered  blue !" 

LII. 
"Dead  !  my  Malta?"    "Yes,  my  maid ; 

We  met  in  even's  hour ; 
'Twas  there  I  saw  him  palely  laid 

'Mid  weed,  and  leaf,  and  flower." 
"Ah  then,  my  Malta,  matchless  thou  !— 

And  he  a  hero  fell?" 
"A  hero  fell ;  and  I  that  bow 

To  marriage, — funeral  knell ! — 
The  maid  her  wish ;  wilt  go  or  stay  ? 

Wilt  sail  the  waters  wide? 
Wilt  fall  upon  thy  knees  and  pray 

For  turning  of  the  tide  ?" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GAFTON.  203 

"My  love  is  love  that  finds  its  mate 

'Mid  tangled  dreams  of  life ; 
My  Malta,  'tis  Leonie's  fate  !— 

"Then  priest  shall  end  the  strife  I" 

LIII. 

The  ship  sailed  on  like  a  thing  of  life, 
And  paled  the  shore,  the  scene,  and  the  strife, 
And  many  a  song  from  the  pirate  crew 
Rang  o'er  the  waters  green  and  blue, 
And  flap  of  the  sail  and  the  roar  of  the  sea, 
In  solemn  sound  'neath  heaven's  canopy, 
Unnatural  thoughts  gave  to  the  mind ; 
And  wailed  like  a  dirge  the  ceaseless  wind ; 
The  seldom  bird,  the  receding  shore, 

The  bannered  clouds,  the  starlights  o'er,  9 

The  mellow  Queen  in  half  array 
That  against  the  even  calmly  lay, 
A  scene  where  Beauty  veiled  in  her  woe 
Taught  dread,  and  a  fear,  and  the  eye  to  flow ; 
But  yet  the  fair  maid  as  calm  as  the  love 
That  blooms  o'er  a  life  in  a  vine-wreathed  grove, 
No  dread  for  the  morrow  now  veiled  in  night, 
And  the  fairy  bride  maids  all  clad  in  their  white, 
With  armf  uls  of  flowers, 

And  smiles  like  the  dawn, 
Seemed  wreathing  her  bride 

Of  the  rosy-tipt  morn ; 
, .          And  the  ship  and  the  crew 

Like  a  cloud  faded  there, 
And  Edens  of  beauty 

Seemed  here,  everywhere, 
And  a  Maid,  like  a  mist, 

Seemed  floating  above, 
And  the  song  from  her  lips 

Rang  sweetly  of  love: 

LIV. 

SONG. 

"Oh,  my  beauty,  fresh  and  fair, 
With  thy  sunlight  gemmed  hair, 
Skies*  of  beauty,  scenes  of  joy, 
Wait  thy  wedding  where  alloy 
Finds  no  vein  in  purest  gold, 
Mossy  banks  and  flowery  wold, 
Scenes  where  love  was  never  sold, 
Scenes  of  pleasure,  choicest  fruit, 


204  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

Statue  gossips  bowed  mute ; 

All  thy  days  shall  rosy  go, 

Streams  and  rivers  sweetly  flow, 

Honeyed  zephyrs  faintly  blow ; 

All  a  scene  that  Eden  knew 

Ere  the  Satan  stalked  through. 

Emerald  Isle  the  Pirate's  home ; 

Never  fairy  lady  moan. 

Words  are  false,  and  words  are  true, 

Chieftain  he  that  never  blue, 

Wrecked  life  and  wrecked  crew, 

Saw  a  traitor,  though  his  name 

Smirched  and  blacked  by  crime  and  shame, 

Keigns  a  fear  o'er  tangled  wave. 

Malta!  Malta!  o'er  thy  grave, 

Love's  proud  warriors  madly  rave, 

Grave  where  Mercy  laid  her  head, 

Callous  grown  fell  weeping,  dead ! 

Up !  my  maid,  the  shadows  go, 

Hold  no  tale  of  chieftain's  woe ; 

Love  has  made  him  what  he  is, 

Love  to  claim  him  back,  I  wis, 

STou  the  maid  to  soft  his  heart, 

Luna  Queen  shall  light  the  dart, 

Swiftly  flung  from  quivered  side, 

Melting  heart  and  naming  bride. 

Pictures  'ray  the  vaulted  sky, 

One  a  tale  of  misery ! 

Met  they  by  the  laughing  brook, 

Fairy  wands  in  beauty  strook 

Heart  of  her  and  heart  of  him, 

Volumed  shadows  started  grim. 

Gone  !  and  she  a  weeping  maid, 

Gone !  his  comrades  bowed  laid 

Hero's  form  in  sunless  grave, 

Gone !  the  tangled  flowers  wave !" 

LV. 

And  dreamy  maid, 
In  love  arrayed, 

Limned  pictures  strange  and  wild, 
And  primal  night 
Had  taken  flight 

In  beauty  undefiled, 
Ere  all  the  thought 
So  vainly  caught, 

Had  won  a  peaceful  reign, 
And  matin  morn 


THE  LEGEND  OF  QAFTON.  205 

Had  woke  the  dawn 

O'er  mountain,  sea,  and  plain. 
The  scene  now  fled 
With  Malcolm  dead, 

Had  waked  her  wildest  thought, 
And  light  and  shade 
In  beauty  played 

With  weed,  forget-me-not, 
And  Love  the  god, 
Seemed  but  a  fraud 

That  puzzled  helpless  maid, 
But  when  the  Night 
With  Morn  bedight, 

Was  o'er  the  mountain  laid, 
The  dream  had  gone, 
And  now  came  on 

A  sanity  of  mind, 
And  all  the  woes 
Latona  knows, 

Were  shackled  and  confined ; 
And  vessel  flew 
Across  the  blue, 

And  wedding  peals  outrung, 
And  never  morn 
A  merrier  dawn, 

And  skylarks  rose  and  sung, 
And  Nature  all 
In  Beauty's  thrall, 

Was  spread  beneath  the  morn, 
And  misty  mountains 
Like  the  fountains, 

Lay  across  the  dawn. 
The  sky  above, 
The  birds  of  love, 

The  thousand  things  around, 
A  mazy  scene 
In  spanning  een, 

And  ocean  there  profound, 
In  organ  tone 
Gave  moan  on  moan, 

Across  the  furrowed  plain, 
And  Day  the  god 
With  silvered  rod, 

In  majesty  did  reign. 

LVI. 
SONG. 
"My  Leonie  maid,  Leonie  maid, 


206  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

The  morning  has  brought  in  sight 
My  castle  home  in  beauty  arrayed 

Like  a  haven  from  out  the  night ; 
It  hides  the  east  and  wooes  the  west, 

A  kiss  from  Phrebus'  ray, 
As  down  he  goes  by  e'en  caressed 

Where  Night  comes  up  the  way." 
"Oh  Malta!  Malta!  the  enchanted  Isle, 

The  Isle  of  my  rosiest  dream, 
'Tis  there  I'd  reign  tho'  Cupid's  wile 

Should  tangle  my  lured  een." 
"A  dream  come  true,  my  chariest  maid, 

And  robber  turned  god, 
The  Pirate  Chief  like  the  rose  and  the  leaf, 

To  wither  above  the  sod ; 
For  Malta  thine  a  plot  did  twine 

Like  a  network  o'er  thy  life, 
And  tears  that  flood  the  laughing  eyne, 

Are  Joy  with  Joy  at  strife. 
And  amethyst  by  blue  caressed, 

From  India  far  away,  .,  , 

-  Shall  'ray  thy  hand  like  a  jewelled  band, 

And  diamonds  from  old  Cathay ; 
The  agate  from  proud  Scotia's  cave, 

Shall  sparkle  in  thy  hair, 
Egyptian  jasper  with  it  crave 

To  be  forever  there ; 
Onyx,  opal,  jewels  of  rarest  kind, 

Shall  deck  thy  flowered  store, 
And  Cupid-god  no  more  be  blind 

Upon  the  Lydian  shore !" 

LVII. 
"Le-6-nie !— Le-6-nie ! 

A  pretty  maid  to  sleep ! 
And  dream  of  springs  and  blossomed  things, 

And  realms  of  the  classic  Greek  I" 

And  poor  Leonie 

Bares  her  laded  eyes, 
The  Legend's  gone ! 

The  Pirate  Chieftain  dies! 
And  Walter  there 

That  clasps  her  snowy  waist, 
The  Dream  is  gone ! 

Its  outlines  faintly  traced! 


OUR  MARTYRED  PRESIDENT. 


Dead !  the  blinding  teardrops  fall, 
Weeping,  wailing  through  the  night ; 

Death  has  spread  his  funeral  pall, 
Martyred  hero  cold  and  white. 

Mourning  glooms  the  nation's  face, 

Bowed  in  universal  grief, 
Time  nor  teardrop  can  efface ; 

Death,  alas,  has  turned  a  leaf. 

All  of  hope  that  life  could  give, 

All  of  prayers  a  people  prayed, 
Vain,  ah  vain,  to  make  him  live, 

Vain  as  every  offering  made. 

Yet  our  loss  shall  be  our  gain, 
Sundered  hearts  thro'  blood  are  one ; 

He  has  died,  but  not  in  vain, 
God,  thy  will,  thy  will  be  done. 

All  the  nations  by  his  bier, 

Bow  a  loving  brotherhood, 
While  unconscious  falls  the  tear, 

Crowned  and  crownless,  blood  of  blood. 

He  that  sweeps  the  glowing  years 

With  a  master  reach  of  sight, 
Finds  a  purpose  thro'  the  tears 

Why  my  nation's  palled  in  night. 

Crown  of  stars  has  lost  a  gem, 
Brightest  diamond  there  that  shone, 

Broken  now  the  diadem,— 
Mother,  thou  to  mourn  alone  ? 

Thine  the  babe  that  grew  the  man, 

Crowned  by  nation  over  all, 
Chief  and  leader  in  the  van, 

Nation  mourns  him  in  his  fall. 

207 


THE  LADY    OF  DARDALE. 

Thine  the  grief?    The  millions  bow 

Meekly  by  thy  aged  form, 
Weeping  mother  e'en  as  thou, 

Thro'  the  shadow  and  the  storm. 

He  the  nation's  babe  has  grown 
In  the  days  and  weeks  of  doubt ; 

Mingled  tears  and  hush6d  moan 
Now  the  starlights  all  are  out. 

Thou  that  kept  his  purpose  high, 

Sharing  every  hope  and  aim, 
Find  the  teardrops  in  the  eye, 

Thine  and  his,  the  martyred  slain. 

Thou  the  wife,  his  cherished  bride, 

Feel  not  death  has  taken  all, 
Tender  children  crowd  thy  side, 

Starlights  in  the  darkened  pall. 

Thousand  hearts  shall  throb  with  thine, 
In  thy  deep  and  hallowed  woe, 

He,  the  nation:  "Thine  and  mine, 
Let  us  join  our  hands  and  go. 

"He  was  ours ;  he  lived  for  all, 
Mother,  wife,  must  share  our  claim, 

Never  great  man  in  his  fall 
But  the  teardrops  wet  his  name." 

Children,  thou  shalt  take  her  hand, 
Lead  her  gently  from  the  tomb, 

Grief  will  crush  her  tho'  the  land 
Like  a  bride  shall  be  in  bloom. 

She  that  saw  him  crowned  of  fame, 
Proud  of  him  that  he  was  good, 

Soothe  her  when  she  names  his  name, 
By  his  bier  has  mutely  stood. 

Blow  may  crush  her,  yet  to  know 
His  dear  children,  wife  and  friends, 

Shared  her  grief  that  coward's  blow 
Beared  where  Hope  now  hopeless  bends^ 

Yet,  ah  yet,  the  scene  is  past, 

Sad  has  rung  the  ritual  verse, 
Sprig  and  floweret  have  been  cast 

Grander  far  than  bards  rehearse. 


TAKE  ME  BACK  TO  MENTOR.  209 

Ours  the  offering  meek  and  low 

Unto  him  the  nation  chose, 
That  the  verse  might  heal  the  woe, 

Dry  the  tear  that  vainly  flows. 

Yet,  ah  yet,  the  hour  came  on, 

Thro*  the  hope,  the  grief,  the  prayer, 
And  the  starlights  thro'  the  dawn 

Smiled,  but  found  no  spirit  there ! 

O  the  tears  and  wails  above  him ! 

O  the  beauty  of  his  death ! 
O  the  blow  to  those  that  love  him ! 

O  the  prayers  beneath  the  breath! 

Vain,  ah  vain,  the  anthems  o'er  him, 

Vain,  ah  vain,  all  earthly  aid, 
All  of  life  might  not  restore  him, 

All  of  life  as  soon  should  fade. 

He  has  gone  to  realms  of  beauty, 

Gone  as  warrior  stricken  brave, 
Gone  from  love,  and  earth,  and  duty, 

Gone  as  hero  to  his  grave. 

Ye  that  saw  the  nations  kneel 

Proudly  by  our  honored  chief, 
Saw  the  teardrops  slowly  steal 

From  a  more  than  pity's  grief. 

God  be  with  thee !    May  the  years 

Blend  as  rainbow  tints  above, 
Mentor  seem  the  place  ere  tears 

Fell  upon  thy  home  of  love ! 


TAKE  ME  BACK  TO  MENTOR, 


"Take  me  back  to  Mentor!"— There 
By  his  bedside  mute  and  still, 

Once  to  him  a  bride  as  fair 
As  the  floweret  by  the  rill, 

Stood  she  voiceless  in  her  grief, 
All  the  world  a  blank  before ; 

14 


210  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

"Life  or  Death  upon  the  leaf, 

When  the  hours  shall  turn  it  o'er?" 
They  were  pale,  and  what  of  her? 

Paint,  ye  Muses,  she  that  love 
Made  the  quivered  eyelash  stir, 

She  that  named  the  gods  above 
Less  than  him  she  loved  and  lost, 

Grief  like  this  is  hers,  not  thine, 
Human  breast  is  ocean  tossed, 

What  when  Death  shall  read  the  line  ? 
"James  I"  and  he  that  knew  the  name, 

Knew  her  not  that  gave  it  breath ; 
Pause  ye  here  that  kindred  claim, 

Whispers  there :  "Itnears!    'Tis  Death!" 
See  her  crushed.    O  nameless  Woe ! 

Know  ye  not  of  Pity's  reign  ? 
God  may  lay  the  sufferer  low, 

She  to  join  the  whitened  train ! 
"James!"  alas,  a  vacant  look, 

First  to  know  now  knew  her  not ! 
Who  that  bending  grief  has  shook, 

Paints  no  poem  finer  wrought  ? 
Hush !    He  wanders !— "All  a  dream. 

Take  me  back !  oh  take  me  back  I 
Lawnfield  farm-vales  brightly  gleam." 

Years  shall  echo  :  "Take  me  back!" 


THERE'S  A  SONG  IN  THE  FLOWERS. 


There's  a  song  in  the  flowers, 

And  a  laugh  on  the  hill, 
And  the  rosy-tipt  hours 

Are  speeding  to  mill ; 
Some  carry  pleasures, 

And  some  carry  woes, 
And  some  are  the  treasures 

My  Lady  bestows ; 
One  is  of  sorrow, 

Another  of  joy, 
But  sounds  a  good-morrow 

From  girl  and  from  boy ; 
And  some  that  are  laden 


Sweetly  twine  the  briar  roses 
\r\  their  beauty  ricr|  and  rare; 

Like  a  rainbow  o'er  the  verses 
Nestling  like  the  flowerets  there. 


Gcd  has  made  them  in  their  beauty, 
Pure  as  girlhood's  fleckless  love, 

And  oq  eartr}  they  teacr]  of  Heaver) 
Iq  the  ether  far  above. 

How  they  twine  and  shine  so  lovel-y! 

How  they  softeq  every  heart; 
By  their-sweet  and  holy  beauty, 

By  their  rare  and  simple  art. 

May  the  verses  that  you  laurel 
Teacf]  as  sweet  a  tale  as  you, 

Verse  and  floweret  pointing  softly 
To  that  realrri  across  the  blue 


THE  SUMMER  IS  GONE.  211 

Like  a  bent  camel's  back, 
Yet  Love  and  his  maiden 

Sball  trip  in  the  track ; 
The  two  shall  commingle, 

The  good  and  the  bad, 
But  the  waifs  of  Kris  Kringle 

Shall  smile  and  be  glad ; 
For  hope  is  a  fountain 

That  springs  in  the  dark, 
Tho'  bad  seem  a  mountain, 

Shall  wing  the  high  lark ; 
One  hour  is  adorning 

With  love  of  the  spring, 
But  comes  a  dark  morning 

With  fleck  on  the  wing; 
The  high  and  the  lowly 

Shall  battle  and  war, 
But  a  peace  calm  and  holy 

Shall  teach  them  the  law, 
That  love  is  a  duty, 

And  spans  like  the  bow 
That  arches  in  beauty 

O'er  life  and  its  woe ; 
So,  plain  is  my  moral 

As  tale  of  the  cross, 
Tho'  life  be  a  quarrel 

With  gain  and  with  loss ; 
The  end  shall  be  glory 

To  him  in  the  fight 
Whose  life  in  the  story 

Was  battle  for  right! 


THE  SUMMER  IS  GONE, 

The  Summer  is  gone  from  off  the  lawn, 
And  the  flowers  are  lying  dead, 
And  the  flowers  are  lying  dead ; 

The  whirling  clouds  are  in  the  sky, 
The  sky  so  cold  and  red ; 

And  you  and  I  that  may  not  die 
In  the  chill  November  blast, 

Must  watch  and  wait  in  lowly  state, 
While  the  whirling  hours  go  past, 
While  the  whirling  hours  go  past ; 


212  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

We  look  to  north,  we  look  to  south,      v 
And  winter's  in  the  blast, 

Its  very  frost  is  on  the  mouth, 
As  if  to  say,  your  life  is  past 
When  the  sun  shall  go  o'er  the  hills  at  last, 
For  the  frost  of  his  breath  will  freeze  the  soul, 
Will  freeze  the  soul,  will  freeze  the  soul, 
'Twas  ever  thus  the  death-king  stole, 

In  at  the  mouth  and  thro'  the  blood, 
A  victim  here,  a  victim  there, 
Till  nerve,  and  fiber,  and  vein, 
And  the  whirling  thoughts  across  the  brain, 
Were  dead  in  the  rage  of  a  mad  despair, 

That  seethed  and  boiled  like  a  tortured  flood, 
Till  crash !  a  shiver,  a  shock, 

And  life  and  fear,  and  love  and  woe, 
Are  fragments  of  broken  rock, — 
Of  strength,  of  power,  of  nerved  force, 
Of  strength  and  power  that  end  their  course 
When  the  lightning  steed  of  death  shall  go, 
When  the  lightning  steed  of  death  shall  go, 
And  the  mightiest  man  is  naught. 


THE  TEAR  OF  THE  WEEPER. 


The  tear  of  the  weeper 

Has  gone  with  the  morrow, 
For  scythe  of  the  reaper 

Our  darling  did  borrow ; 
He  fell  with  the  flowers 

When  Autumn  was  golden, 
And  left  the  fair  bowers 

Where  summers  were  olden. 

His  mound  'mong  the  grasses 

Was  laureled  with  roses, 
And  stranger  that  passes : 

"A  flower  that  closes, 
And  leaves  a  fond  mother 

With  heart  full  of  sorrow, 
A  sister  or  brother. 

That  weeps  with  the  morrow !' 


THE  TEAE  OF  THE  WEEPER.  213 

And  Fall  crowned  Autumn, 

And  Winter  came  blowing, 
But  never  forgotten 

The  mound  in  the  snowing ; 
The  minutes  made  hours, 

And  fled  with  the  morrows, 
But  late  in  our  bowers 

The  sorrow  of  sorrows. 

A  Raphael  in  painting 

Found  never  the  power 
Where  outline  is  fainting 

With  death  in  the  bower ; 
The  bosom  may  feel  it, 

A  soul  torn  asunder, 
But  ne'er  can  reveal  it 

Till  death  shall  encumber 

The  heart  of  the  hearer 

And  plunge  him  in  sorrow, 
When  nothing  seems  dearer, 

And  hoping  can  borrow 
No  solace  to  cheer  him, 

No  balm  with  the  morning, 
When  she  that  was  near  him 

Is  dead  with  the  dawning. 

Oh  father!  oh  mother! 

When  death  comes  unbidden, 
The  heart  of  another, 

Tho'  friendship  has  bidden, 
Can  know  not  your  sorrow, 

Tour  loving,  and  hoping, 
The  woe  with  the  morrow, 

The  longing,  and  groping. 

Yet  weep  o'er  thy  darling, 

But  never  complaining, 
Weep,  weep  o'er  thy  darling, 

But  ever  refraining 
From  branding  the  Power 

That  took  him  in  beauty, 
For  Death  has  his  hour, 

And  comes  as  a  duty. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE. 


DEDICATION:  TO  KEY.  DANIEL  STEVENSON,  D.  D. 


Pleasures  of  Culture  unto  thee 

I  dedicate  in  verse, 
You  strung  the  harp  of  rustic  beauty, 

And  taught  me  to  rehearse 
The  thousand  'rayfid  thoughts  that  came 

From  other  realms  than  ours, 
And  sent  a  wild  poetic  flame 

That  diademed  the  hours. 

In  chaos  wild  you  saw  the  queen 

Of  Poesy's  native  song, 
The  maids  that  danced  upon  the  green, 

A  rare  unlettered  throng ; 
You  saw  a  future  spread  before 

That  artist  Time  should  paint, 
'Twas  Faith  that  paints  that  other  shore, 

Thro'  faith  it  shone  as  faint. 

Yet  in  your  eye  the  picture  shone 

Beyond  and  thro*  your  thought, . 
I  caught  it  in  your  voice  and  tone, 

Your  finer  fancy  wrought ; 
We  met  but  twice,  yet  never  child 

Was  taught  the  surer  way, 
Alone,  unlettered,  undefiled, 

Better  than  I— astray ! 

I  stood  with  Chaos  hand  in  hand, 

I  stood  as  one  gone  blind, 
A  whirling  world  across  the  land, 

A  darkness  in  the  mind ; 
214 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE.  216 

But  you  a  beacon  shone  afar, 

And  ere  the  die  was  cast, 
You  rose  a  soft  half  hidden  star, 

A  rainbow  o'er  the  blast  I 


The  gentle  murmurs  of  the  evening  breeze 
Were  wooing  softest  songs  in  haunts  of  ease, 
And  all  the  scene  of  rural  quiet  round 
Seemed  mellowed  by  the  joy-prevailing  sound ; 
And  beauties  won  their  Edens  in  the  mind 
In  joyous  train,  and  pleasures  unconfined 
Rose  sweet  on  sweet,  and  wooed  the  cultured  brain 
To  tenderest  visions  where  the  beauties  reign 
That  Culture,  Goddess  of  the  human  heart, 
Soft  steals  from  varied  view  where  joyous  start 
A  myriad  band  of  pleasures,  joys,  delights, 
The  -thousand  things  that  thro'  the  starlit  nights 
True  lovers  trace,  as  hand  in  hand  with  Love 
They  turn  the  winding  ways,  and  stars  above 
Their  guardian  lamps  that  light  them  on  their  way, 
And  shed  a  thousand  love-songs  in  their  ray. 

The  hour  is  quiet,  all  a  calmness  there 
That  won  its  reign  from  Culture's  fairest  fair, 
And  scenes  on  scenes  in  evening's  twilight  hue, 
As  softly  steal  as  stars  from  out  the  blue, 
And  thoughts  are  wandering  as  the  eye  of  love 
While  passioned  word  with  passioned  ear  had  strove ; 
And  he  that  found  a  lack  of  sculptor's  art, 
Finds  sculptures  there  their  magic  joys  impart ; 
And  pictures  'ray  his  room  where  none  are  found ; 
The  hours  go  by  in  rosy  visions  bound, 
And  past  and  present  mingled  varied  scene, 
The  pictures,  paintings,  loves  in  dewy  e'en, 
Ere  Homers,  Dantes  born  to  live  and  die, 
But  die  no  death  beneath  the  vaulted  sky ; 
For  culture  claims  the  magic  of  the  mind 
Where  Genius'  living  beauties  are  resigned. 

With  Memory's  train  and  Fancy's  laureled  band, 
Sweet  Culture  strays,  each  softly  hand  in  hand, 
And  moments  gone,  and  hours,  and  evening  fled, 
Yet  each  in  rosy  wreaths  is  loving  wed ; 
And  statue-form  as  he  in  Abbey's  walls, 
A  sightless  eye,  nor  hears  the  curlew  calls, 
The  martin's  note,  the  thousand  voiced  eve 
Where  weed  and  floweret  dewy-laded  grieve, 
The  river's  soft  monotony  to  the  breeze, 
The  sounds  that  greet  the  haunts  of  social  ease, 


216  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  make  a  melody  sweet  as  time  has  won 
From  Strauss,  Beethoven  brain,  and  once  begun 
The  holy  calm  that  reigns  across  the  Vale, 
Possesses  all  the  heart,  in  tones  assail 
As  witching  sweet  as  Siren  from  the  wave 
That  gently  wooes  the  hero  to  his  grave. 

The  babe  that  cried  his  cradle  dirge  to  all, 
Is  painted  o'er,  and  shadows,  sunlights  fall ; 
The  milkmaid's  song  is  heard  in  artless  strain, 
And  horns  seem  nodding  to  the  sweet  refrain ; 
The  latch  is  lifted,  hands  soft  tanned  and  brown, 
Are  foaming  pail  with  richest  milk,  and  drown 
The  steps  her  heartf  ul  lay,  she  heeds  not,  hears ; 
Her  eyes  are  filled,  for  Love  will  have  his  tears ; 
The  sudden  start,  and  there  across  the  bars 
Are  met  four  eyes  that  glisten  like  the  stars, 
And  leaning  bashful  'gainst  the  crumbling  rail, 
An  hour  is  stole,  and  yet  the  frothing  pail 
Is  cheated,  as  the  meek-eyed,  motherly  kine, 
And  Love  shall  echo  there,    "The  maid  is  mine !" 

The  scene  is  gone,  the  haystack,  lover,  maid, 
The  farm,  the  house,  the  barn,  in  mist  arrayed, 
And  rural  scene  where  freshly  ran  the  stream, 
Are  but  the  flitting  shreds  of  Memory's  dream ; 
And  yet  the  thought  that  Culture  clothed  fair, 
Was  stealing  through  a  life,  a  scene  where  care, 
And  love,  and  joy,  were  rivals  in  the  view, 
But  freshened  now  by  memory's  balmy  dew, 
May  teach  a  heart  the  devious  route  of  life, 
Where  myriad  forces  mingled  in  the  strife, 
And  faintest  scenes  come  back  in  strongest  shade, 
In  Beauty's  garb  and  Fancy's  hues  arrayed. 
The  scene  not  known,  unrealized,  felt, 
Till  tears  of  love  and  friendship  softly  melt, 
And  storied  brain  to  love  and  wisdom  won, 
Paints  all  the  past  with  brightness  of  the  sun. 

The  years  were  stealing,  he  that  crowed  a  babe, 
A  blooming  flower  by  Nature's  hand  arrayed, 
And  aimless  looked  at  her  that  milked  the  kine, 
In  boyhood's  days  was  picturing  castled  Rhine ; 
And  later  time  shall  find  him  at  the  bars, 
And  Love  shall  sail  with  doves  to  winged  cars ; 
The  pail  shall  froth,  but  never  froth  the  brim, 
While  holiest  peace  shall  sway  on  every  limb ; 
~A.nd  time  shall  fly  as  never  flew  before, 
And  yet  the  tale  is  telling  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  e'en  shall  fall,  and  wondering  farmer  turn 
To  find  his  maid,  and  nether  cheek  shall  burn, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE.  217 

As  blushes  there  that  tell  of  Cupid's  reign, 
Confess  the  cause  of  such  delay,  and  claim 
The  throne  despite  the  secret  she  would  hide, 
Tho'  fleeting  time  should  laurel  her  a  bride  ! 

The  rattling  loom  has  struck  his  boyhood's  ear, 
And  rural  view  has  vanished  like  the  tear ; 
The  stranger  forces  once  so  dapper  felt, 
Were  teaching  half  regrets  that  visions  melt, 
And  leave  the  sweetest  scene  of  boyhood's  reign, 
A  faded  view  that  shines  across  the  brain ; 
And  when  no  longer  ball  and  bat  are  found 
The  chiefest  joys  with  Faery  twined  around, 
A  half  regret  that  youthhood's  days  are  gone, 
Falls  there  upon  his  heart,  and  rosy  morn 
Is  black  with  clouds,  and  tears  are  in  his  eyes, 
And  stars  seem  weeping  from  the  domed  skies ; 
The  castles  melt  that  browed  above  his  Rhine,  f 

And  stern  Reality  through  his  teardrops  shine. 

The  winding  stream  that  turned  the  busy  mill, 
The  tumbled  bridge  that  arched  the  sedgy  rill, 
The  rambling  town  with  houses  placed  by  chance, 
Are  memory's  own,  and  there  upon  the  glance, 
Shall  seem  as  mist  upon  the  mountain's  top, 
And  scene  on  scene  shall  be  as  woof  and  warp ; 
But  time  shall  move,  and  he  another  scene 
Its  magic  hues  shall  throw  across  his  dream, 
For  castles  tower  in  every  turn  of  life, 
And  some  shall  fall  like  those  in  ancient  strife, 
While  others  firmer  built  shall  wage  a  war 
With  time,  but  time  with  never-swerving  law, 
Shall  win  at  last,  and  castles  built  in  youth 
In  crumbled  ruins  fall,  like  shafts  untruth 
Has  reared  across  the  land  to  falsest  gods, 
And  ruled  a  time  with  golden  starred  rods ; 
But  youthhood'scastlesreared  above  the  plain, 
Fall  only  quicker  than  the  one  of  brain. 

The  farm-vale  house,  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay, 
The  winding  lane,  the  owl  and  bird  of  lay, 
Are  gone,  the  homestead  verging  on  the  grave, 
Has  sheltered  long  a  stranger  band,  a  wave 
Of  sad  emotion  sweeps  across  the  soul 
As  thro'  the  years  his  thoughts  have  vainly  stole ; 
And  tender  mother,  father  gray  in  years, 
Have  shed  on  fleeting  earth  their  last,  last  tears ; 
And  there  a  stranger,  (dearest  spot  of  earth  !) 
Finds  not  the  greeting  smile,  but  crushing  dearth 
Of  all !    The  heart  is  sick,  the  mind  is  crushed, 
A  sad  return  where  joy  and  mirth  are  hushed, 


218  THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

And  every  pansy,  rose  seems  o'er  a  grave 

Of  sweetest  past,  where  flowerets  once  did  wave. 

In  city's  streets,  a  dot  among  the  crowd, 
His  form  is  traced ;  the  busy  years  have  bowed 
An  athlete's  form,  and  gray  has  streaked  his  hair, 
And  who  that  thought  that  gray  would  e'er  be  there  ! 
Ah  Time  that  grays  my  babe  in  bended  years, 
Thy  sickle  sweeps,  and  yet  thou  hast  no  tears! 
"Give  back  my  youth  !"  his  soul  within  him  cries, 
"My  early  years  !"  and  teardrops  blind  his  eyes ; 
"The  little  farm,  the  friendships  past  and  gone, 
The  paintless  house  where  brothers,  I  was  born ; 
The  mother,  father.    What  shall  be  the  end? 
The  end?"    And  shadows  there  that  meet  and  blend. 
He  passes  on,  and  war-drums  sound  alarm, 
And  battles  rage,  and  Nation  once  so  calm, 
In  wild  commotion  rushes  thro'  the  land, 
And  "Save  thy  mother,  freedom  !    Valor's  band  !" 
And  Bull  Run  sees  her  gasping  there  for  life ! 
His  youth !  his  youth  I  and  brave  amid  the  strife 
The  foe  should  feel  his  blade  !  and  songs  should  tell : 
"Sweet  Victory  rose,  but  valorous  hero  fell !" 
The  Sword  of  Right  cut  never-healed  wound, 
The  usurping  Foe  in  wakeless  faint  has  swooned ; 
The  drum  beat  loud  on  Victory's  bloody  field, 
And  he  that  rose  a  dread  in  shame  did  yield. 

As  he  who  wanders  thro'  the  vales  of  life, 
And  good  and  bad  has  ever  found  at  strife, 
The  bended  road  is  seen  that  ends  but— where  ? 
And  fingers  cold  have  grasped  him ;  there  and  there 
He  turns  and  slow  retraces  all  the  route ; 
The  moon  has  sunk,  and  stars  are  darked  and  out, 
And  sitting  down  in  scenes  of  earliest  days, 
The  solemn  tones  are  mingled  with  the  lays, 
And  Death  a  welcome  guest  that  meets  his  gaze ! 

In  calmness  won  from  sweet  and  storied  past, 
From  every  clime  where  beauties'  hues  shall  last, 
He  sits  at  eve,  and  softest  Culture's  reign 
Makes  pleasing  scenes  across  his  teeming  brain ; 
And  friends  are  gone,  and  he  that  sits  alone, 
Is  not  alone,  but  thousand  friendships  own 
A  kindred  tie,  and  find  the  kinship  wooed 
By  pleasing  thought,  in  fancy's  softest  mood, 
And  laughing  train  of  fairy  fays  shall  roam 
Athwart  the  mind,  and  each  invited  home, 
For  Culture's  art  shall  magic  paint  the  weed, 
The  veriest  thing  by  bounteous  sunlight  freed, 
A  thousand  hues  shall  'ray  the  pictured  scene, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE.  219 

And  many  a  joy  shall  start  in  starlight  sheen ; 
The  Homer  gods  shall  come  in  classic  train, 
Achilles  start  where  Hectors  once  were  slain, 
And  Troy's  dear  Tale  on  wings  of  swiftest  thought, 
Shall  fly  above  in  magic  beauties  wrought ; 
The  ages  grand  of  mythologic  gods 
Shall  find  a  place,  and  cycles'  mouldered  sods 
Give  up  their  tale,  the  secrets  rich  with  lore, 
And  waves  send  forth  the  mysteries  of  the  shore. 

The  mighty  minds  so  mellowed  in  the  view, 
Shall  join  the  train  in  freshest  morning  dew ; 
The  Ariostos  claim  a  kindred  tear, 
And  thought  shall  paint  as  sweetly  now  were  here 
The  far  Italian  bard,  and  voiceful  reign 
Ere  ages  fell  in  softly  pleasing  train, 
And  Petrarchs,  Dantes  own  a  share  of  fame 
Where  later  bards  have  won  a  kindred  claim, 
And  link  the  past  with  present  'rayed  in  youth, 
And  earliest  glories  shining  here  in  truth ; 
The  Guidos,  Raphaels,  poesy's  sister  friends, 
The  Muses'  lore  in  varied  picture  blends, 
Or  sculptured  form  that  wooes  the  matchless  mind, 
And  teaches  love  the  cultured  heart  shall  find. 

The  rural  scenes  shall  pleasing  gain  a  share, 
And  sunless  weed  a  tale  shall  picture  there ; 
For  culture  finds  a  charm  where  dullards  pass, 
And  wins  a  varied  tale  from  flower,  grass; 
For  smallest  thing  tho'  Beauty  has  not  'rayed, 
Has  shown  a  purpose,  mighty  Power  that  swayed ; 
And  he  that  passes  half  across  the  mead, 
Shall  find  a  thousand  tales  by  culture  freed, 
The  faded  flower  with  rose-blooms  fled  away, 
Shall  claim  a  thought  and  show  a  pleasing  sway ; 
The  brambles  catching  at  the  skirts  in  hate, 
The  myriad  hues  in  culture's  train  to  mate, 
The  very  dust  that  clouds  beneath  the  feet, 
Shall  rise  to  claim  where  wisdom's  fancies  meet. 

The  books  that  'ray  his  shelves,  (no  numerous  friends!) 
Shall  rise  companions.    Each  its  wisdom  lends, 
And  he  that  died  ere  Platos  chastened  earth, 
Shall  seem  in  life  as  vivid  as  at  birth, 
And  half  unconscious  years  have  mouldered  gone, 
Sweet  Culture  claims  them  breathing  with  the  morn, 
And  dream  shall  break  and  jar  upon  the  soul 
Where  cultured  thought  their  magic  beauties  stole  ; 
The  master-pieces  born  of  Beauty's  sway, 
Shall  win  the  heart,  and  time  shall  sing  a  lay 


220  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Of  sweetest  years  that  seem  in  magic  reign, 
And  thrall  the  soul  as  beauties  here  again. 

The  bard  that  sang  the  first  of  England's  songs, 
Shall  find  a  kindred  claim  'mid  later  throngs, 
The  Canterbury  Tales  shall  seem  as  now, 
The  Tapster  sing,  the  lover  softly  bow, 
And  present  lost  in  rosy-tinted  past, 
The  knightly  steel  shall  sound  across  the  blast, 
And  Chaucer  sweetest  singer  of  his  time, 
Stand  here  in  life  and  sing  again  his  rhyme, 
The  hours  shall  go,  the  world  in  teeming  tide, 
But  Past  shall  woo  the  Present  modest  bride, 
And  cooing  tones  shall  sound  across  the  years, 
And  Now  is  lost  and  Culture  smiles  in  tears ; 
The  voices  sound  in  Beauty's  softest  thought, 
The  glowing  past  in  magic  hues  is  caught, 
And  like  a  dream  in  childhood's  happy  day, 
The  many-hued  tints  shall  come  in  sway, 
And  weave  an  Eden  rosy  'rayed  and  fair, 
With  pansy,  lilies,  roses  glowing  there. 

Decisive  battles  balmed  by  feathered  Time, 
Shall  stir  the  blood,  and  sadly  weave  a  rhyme 
Where  Victory  rose  and  fell,  and  rose  again, 
And  trumpets;  war-drums  sound,  the  charge  of  men, 
Napoleons  rise,  and  Waterloos  their  doom 
Ring  out  again,  a  floweret  cut  in  bloom. 
We  cry  for  France,  or  Knighthood's  fading  dream ; 
We  join  the  ranks,  and  banners  brightly  gleam, 
And  England  now  shall  claim  the  kindred  tear, 
Then  Scotland  rise,  in  plaid  we  madly  cheer ; 
The  Victor  ever  claims  our  nobler  thought, 
But  finer  fancy  saddest  teardrops  caught 
For  him  that  fell,  tho'  justice  not  his  cause, 
For  Pity  shines  above  all  lesser  laws. 

Like  whirling  clouds  across  the  mellowed  blue, 
The  thoughts  have  gone,  but  loveliest  yet  in  hue, 
And  chaos  minds  in  magic  colors  trace 
The  winding  ways  where  beauties  find  a  place ; 
For  distance  throws  a  glamour  of  delight 
Across  the  myriad  past  where  seems  a  night ; 
But  softest  Culture  turns  her  magic  eye, 
And  gloom  is  gone,  and  starlights  in  the  sky ; 
The  sad  and  sweet  shall  come  in  wedded  train, 
And  varying  beauties  throw  across  the  brain ; 
For  morrows  gone  are  dearer  in  their  age, 
And  magic  shine  across  the  pictured  page, 
Divinely  glow,  and  like  a  stealing  moon, 
A  sweetness  shed  as  flowers  fresh  in  bloom ; 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE.  221 

And  he  that  saw  no  beauties  in  the  mind, 
More  beauties  there  than  reaching  eye  shall  find ; 
And  friendships  gone  in  mellow-tinted  past, 
As  sweet  again  shall  seem  as  when  their  last 
Was  conscious  felt,  and  tears  were  in  his  eyes, 
As  he  who  lingers  where  the  heart-maid  dies. 

The  whirling  fancies  Culture  'rays  a  bride, 
And  amorous  lover  wooes  them  to  his  side ; 
Pride  and  poverty  and  fashion  may  go 
And  bear  the  burden  of  their  folly's  woe ; 
The  dapper  lord  that  sinks  all  fame  in  dress  ;— 
Away,  away  !  the  finer  joys  caress  ! 
And  mind  that  bowed  low  to  fashion's  law, 
Shall  say  that  folly  there  was  all  he  saw. 
The  higher  mind  in  fancy's  softer  garb, 
Shall  trace,  retrace  the  routes  now  golden  starred ; 
For  time  has  woven  sweetly  as  the  love 
That  matchless  found  its  maid  in  realms  above, 
And  fleeting  things  by  beauty  then  unclaimed, 
Are  peerless  now,  and  laureled,  starred,  and  famed ; 
And  flitting  scenes  that  went  so  tamely  by, 
Elysian  hues  have  ta'en  to  raptured  eye ; 
The  idle  games  that  grew  so  tiresome  then, 
.Like  stars  shall  shine  in  Faery's  diadem ; 
And  soul  enraptured  in  the  mazy  view 
The  fays  of  Eden  matchless  there  shall  strew ; 
The  dullest  thing  now  rosy  'rayed  by  time, 
Shall  catch  the  heart  like  some  old  poet's  rhyme, 
And  all  the  morrows  but  the  Now  in  past, 
Shall  sweeter  seem  where  Time  his  mantle  cast. 
O  hues  of  beauty !  born  in  Culture's  train, 
Why  fairer  found  when  links  are  in  the  chain? 
The  brook  that  sang  across  the  modest  farm, 
Sang  then  as  now  in  Nature's  matchless  charm ; 
The  kine  that  drank  the  freshly-pebbled  stream, 
E'en  hold  a  charm  across  the  winding  dream, 
And  Eden  fair  of  shrub  and  loaded  tree, 
The  homestead  seems,  with  never-dreamed  beauty. 

O  many-ray^d  Muse !  why  steals  the  scene 
In  magic  garb  across  the  straining  een  ? 
Do  time  and  tide  e'er  make  the  flitting  now 
A  choicer  boon  with  age  upon  its  brow  ? 
Ah  me !  ah  me  !  the  present  e'er  as  sweet 
Erejlays  were  years  with  rosy-sandaled  feet ; 
But  fancy,  memory,  Culture,  paint  the  scene 
Like  flowery  bride  with  love-looks  in  her  een, 
And  Heaven  is  there  if  ever  Heaven  reigned, 
Where  Virtue's  garb  by  baseless  man  is  stained. 


222  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

The  thoughts  are  changing  as  the  bark  canoe, 
In  mazy  scenes  and  pastures  winding  thro' ; 
The  good,  the  bad,  the  dear,  the  vanished  all, 
Yet  start  again  at  Culture's  pleading  call, 
And  months  and  years  in  airy-flighted  train 
Like  fays  of  Faery  flit  across  the  brain. 
The  Kalids  love,  and  Conrads  bare  the  breast, 
A  Corsair  life,  but  love  is  there  confessed ; 
The  gun  that  echoes  thro'  the  starry  night, 
Has  won  its  mark,  and  life  is  dead  and  white ; 
The  Juans  teach  a  love  enborn  of  earth, 
And  woe-cries  there  sound  not  above  the  mirth. 
The  scene  is  gone,  and  Avon's  bard  afoot, 
Shall  steal  along  where  starlights  palely  shoot ; 
The  daisy  pied,  and  violet  blushing  fair, 
Shall  smile  to  see  so  sweet  a  poet  there ; 
And  Nature  all  shall  waken  at  his  tread, 
And  "Sing  me,  ere  I  fall  among  the  dead  ! 
And  time  shall  go,  and  fresh  as  in  the  field 
My  life  shall  be,  and  every  fragrance  yield!" 
Away,  away,  across  the  flowery  main, 
For  moments  gone  are  linked  writh  a  chain 
Of  rainbow  tints  that  shine  across  the  blue, ' 
And  magic  found  in  Beauty's  balmy  hue, 
Enchain  the  thought  in  viewless  shackles  there, 
Yet  stronger  found  than  ever  chained  Despair. 

The  vanish  sports,  the  May-dance  on  the  green, 
The  maid  the  rustic  youthhood  crowned  a  queen; 
The  laughter  loud,  the  rapture-feeling  eye, 
The  lover  looks,  the  swelling  breast,  the  sigh ; 
The  matrons  proud  of  charms  their  daughters  wore ; 
The  stealing  e'en  that  fell  so  softly  o'er : 
All,  all  are  there  by  fancy's  fairy  spell ; 
Yet,  Time :  "Oh  faretheewell,  oh  faretheewell !" 
But  ah,  but  ah,  the  luring  scenes  are  there, 
And  memory  paints  them  in  their  mellowed  air, 
And  tho'  the  years  shall  bid  them  all  adieu, 
The  heart  shall  paint  them  e'en  as  brightly  true. 

See  mother  bent  above  the  budding  flower, 
Does  Culture  tear  from  Death  the  sacred  hour? 
Ah  yes !  the  scene  as  fresh  as  lilies  fair 
That  blush  in  life  with  half  angelic  air, 
And  time  and  tide  in  rosy  raptures  bound, 
Are  viewless  made  with  fancy  thrown  around. 
The  flower  is  blooming,  tears  have  wet  its  face, 
'Tis  there  a  mother's  love  the  heart  can  trace ; 
But  babe  has  budded  to  the  harvest  morn ; 
But,  mother  !  father !— babe !— The  world  moves  on, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  CULTURE.  223 

And  teeming  life  shall  jar  upon  the  dream, 
And  show  them  wrecks  upon  the  surging  stream. 

Though  oft  retracing  mazy  walks  of  life, 
A  flower  plucking,  marching  to  the  strife, 
Engaging  'gan  in  sports  or  laughter  round, 
Was  ever  mind  so  sweetly,  sadly  bound ! 
Was  less  than  tale  that  love  shall  tell  his  maid, 
Like  tale  to  love  its  beauties  ne'er  can  fade. 
The  sire  that  time  has  streaked  with  silvered  gray, 
Would  own  the  past  the  mightiest  joy  to  sway ; 
His  memory  gone  for  vainly  passing  now, 
And  vanished  years  seem  shining  o'er  his  brow ; 
Again  he  climbs  the  tree  that  held  the  nest 
Of  robin-bird  where  foliage  fragrant  dressed ; 
The  butterfly  so  deftly  tossed  about, 
Has  shaped  his  chase,  and  faded  starlights  out, 
Have  shone  again,  and  he  the  boyish  king, 
Seems  sceptered  there  in  memory's  spangled  wing ; 
He  half  upstarts  as  swims  the  swallow  by ; 
He  flies  with  fairy  wing  across  the  sky ; 
But  ah,  but  ah,  the  flitting  train  are  gone, 
The  world,  the  heartless  world  moves  madly  on, 
And  he  is  old,  and  thought  that  made  him  brave, 
Has  pictured  living  hues  from  out  the  grave. 

To  storied  clime  beyond  the  severless  sea, 
His  mind  has  gone  in  visions  wrapt  in  beauty ; 
The  Colosseum  spans  before  his  eye, 
And  Rome,  proud  Rome  shall  rear  beneath  the  sky, 
Her  thousand  splendors  freshly  start  to  view, 
And  sweetly  thrall  thro'  fancy's  azure  hue ; 
Arena  with  its  hundred  thousand  throng, 
Tho'  life  is  there  in  fleeting  shreds  of  song, 
Is  wild  of  cries  as  chieftain  of  the  field 
Lowers  the  horned  head  and  heroes  yield. 

Thro'  classic  fields  in  Time's  far  misty  hue, 
His  mind  has  gone,  and  lines  as  brightly  true 
As  then  were  now,  are  painted  softly  there, 
And  distant  scene  in  past  shall  seem  more  fair. 
He  strolls  with  gods,  and  maids  of  laughing  een, 
And  brightly  shines  across  the  magic  scene 
A  varied  view  in  Beauty's  garb  arrayed, 
And  softest  notes  by  girlish  hands  are  played. 
The  magic  splendors  crowd  upon  his  brain, 
And  bind  him  victim  with  a  golden  chain ; 
The  Nations  once  that  rose  the  kings  of  time, 
Have  risen  there  in  Culture's  luring  rhyme, 
And  he  is  rapt  as  one  who  gazes  far 
And  sees  the  past  a  bright,  half  hidden  star ; 


224  THE  LADT  OF  DABDALK 

The  heroes  once  that  turned  the  tide  of  war, 
The  Wellingtons,  and  Washingtons ;  in  law 
Of  time  have  started  there  across  the  view, 
And  smallest  pygmies  all  to  giants  grew. 

O  pleasing  Past !  that  distance  'rayed  a  queen, 
How  brightly  fresh  thy  views  athwart  the  scene ! 
How  clothed  with  beauties  time  alone  shall  win, 
And  teach  of  things  that  sweetly  there  have  been ! 
If  aught  shall  bind  the  mourner  fast  to  earth, 
'Tis  lovely  past  where  beauties  find  their  birth  ! 
A  half  regret  that  airy-footed  time 
Has  tearless  gone,  and  silver-evened  prime 
Has  won  the  throne,  and  made  the  rosy  past 
The  brightest  vision,  fairest,  and  the  last ; 
For  eve  of  life  shall  turn  the  yearning  eye 
To  scenes  where  Time  has  said  his  sweet  good-by ; 
And  he  whose  life  an  artless  flower  grew, 
With  native  beauty  sweet  across  the  view, 
Shall  turn  at  last  and  grasp  the  laded  years 
That  brighter  shine  thro'  Culture  lost  in  tears ; 
The  modest  house  that  roofed  the  little  home, 
To  him  more  beauties  than  a  storied  Home ; 
The  tottering  step  that  told  his  father's  tread, 
The  tottering  years  that  name  him  with  the  dead. 
All,  all  shall  go,  but  lend  a  fleeting  charm 
That  paints  the  past  an  ocean  vast  and  calm. 
The  eve  of  life  its  rainbow  tints  has  thrown 
Across  his  brow  like  some  old  storied  stone, 
And  he  that  left  the  meadow  brook,  the  farm, 
Turns  once  again  to  find  their  native  charm ; 
And  there  with  youthful  fancy  full  in  view, 
He  soft  repaints  the  scene  in  colors  true ; 
The  home-vale  song  of  bird  and  laughing  stream 
Sounds  sweetly  there  thro'  shreds  of  culture's  dream; 
He  whistles  loud,  and  wends  his  aimless  way 
Adown  the  cowlane  at  the  eve  of  day ; 
The  herd  are  lowing  far  across  the  field, 
And  watchdog  bark  has  there  discordant  pealed ; 
'Tis  youthhood's  time  of  fairy  castles  found, 
With  magic  beauties  faintly  twined  around, 
And  never  king  that  ruled  the  sceptered  throne 
A  half  of  boyhood's  rainbows  there  could  own ; 
E'en  fame,  ambition,  taught  no  vain  alarm, 
•But  varied  view  came  there  in  varied  charm. 
In  perfect  health,  and  life  a  living  song, 
The  hours  went  by  in  merry-footed  throng ; 
No  thought  of  cares  that  well  upon  the  brain 
When  years  are  on,  the  past  a  fleeing  train ; 


D  0  ON  AND  A  YR.  225 

The  simple  Now  so  rosy  'rayed  and  fair 
The  only  time  that  claimed  a  joy  or  care. 

The  hills  are  bent  beneath  the  twilight  skies ; 
The  gurgling  brook  in  distance  softly  dies ; 
The  birds  are  still,  and  Nature  bathed  in  balms 
But  half  displays  the  sweetness  of  her  charms, 
And  whistling  lad  behind  the  moving  herd, 
Has  never  a  thought  that  ever  future  stirred,* 
Or  mellowed  past  a  claim  across  the  years 
With  sacred  touch  to  melt  the  heart  to  tears. 

The  years  are  fled,  and  time  with  frosty  breath 
Has  whispered  there  of  softly  stealing  Death, 
And  as  a  life  turns  once  again  to  home 
Where  ever  truest,  dearest  joy-lights  shone, 
So  turned  he  then,  and  gray  before  the  hearth, 
A  flower  bent  among  the  flowers  of  earth, 
He  calmly  sits,  and  fancy  pictures  there 
A  home-scene  once  that  seraph  shone  and  fair ; 
He  sees  a  farm  with  barn  and  gabled  roof, 
And  lights  and  shades  are  woven  in  the  woof ; 
The  brook  that  sang  thro'  weed  and  rushy  dell, 
Sang  sweet  or  sad  in  fancy's  varying  spell :    -   , , , 
And  all  the  past  in  visions  rose  to  view ; 
The  magic  years  in  matchless  beauties  grew,- ' 
Till  he  that  'neath  his  three  score  years  and  ten 
Was  calm  and  still,  for  Death  came  there  again  I 


BOON  AND  AYR. 

Tho'  Doon  and  Ayr  may  sing  for  aye 

Of  Burns  and  Highland  Mary, 
The  god  of  Love  has  found  his  way 

Where  hope  and  freedom  tarry ; 
The  little  nursling  on  the  wing 

Was  found  bewildered  flying, 
Columbia  round  the  god  did  cling, 

With  laughing,  teasing,  crying. 

He  gave  us  freedom  from  the  heights 

Of  sense  and  soundest  reason, 
And  shone  abroad  a  million  lights 

With  love  for  every  season ; 
We  crowned  him  in  the  halls  of  men, 

With  bay  and  rarest  flower, — 
The  Constitution  is  the  brain, 

The  Nation's  chief  est  power. 
15 


226  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  while  we  talk  of  laws  of  state, 
And  things  too  deep  for  singing, 

Sweet  love  may  woo,  and  win,  and  mate, 
While  marriage  bells  are  ringing ; 

And  Sugar  River's  lilied  shore, 
Shall  be  the  evening  ramble, 

While  love  shall  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
*    A  god  to  war  or  gamble. 

And  while  the  dogs  of  law  and  strife 

Are  wrangling  and  debating, 
Sweet  Cupid  sings :  "My  love,  my  life ! 

On  native  river  mating, 
We'll  woo  and  win  the  fair-haired  maid, 

And  never  know  a  sorrow, 
The  lawyers  and  the  law  shall  fade, 

But  love  will  have  his  morrow!" 


HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW, 


And  even  thou  art  growing  old, 
Tho'  laurels  grace  thy  brow 

As  fresh  as  when  thy  harp  of  gold 
First  sang:  "A  Poet  thou!" 

We  could  not  feel  the  hour  of  death 
Would  steal  along  the  way, 

And  gentle  as  an  infant's  breath, 
A  voice  and  harp  should  stay. 

E'en  now  we  see  thee  young  and  fair, 

Ambition  on  thy  shield, 
Our  cherished  and  our  noblest  care, 

While  bells  outrung  and  pealed. 

And  as  we  near  thy  storied  home, 

A  welcome  shines  around, 
But  yet  a  something  in  its  tone 

Of  age,  and  things  profound. 

We  hear  that  throng  on  merry  throng, 
The  wise,  the  grand,  the  gay, 

No  more  in  crowd  shall  move  along 
As  in  thy  flowery  May. 


OLIVER  W.  HOLMES.  227 

The  Harp  of  Time  has  sung  a  Song 

Not  jarring  with  thy  own, 
The  hours  with  thee  have  moved  along 

Till  both  are  sober  grown. 

We  read  thy  verse,  and  grim  Decay 

Nor  glooms  across  thy  page ,  9 

The  scholar,  bard,  the  bright,  the  gay, 

Are  there  in  youthful  rage. 

A  fruited  life  in  fruited  prime, 

Has  halted  by  the  way, 
And  life  and  rhyme  in  perfect  chime, 

Have  painted  perfect  day. 

O  that  some  balm  from  magic  Ind 

Could  fix  thy  Star  of  life, 
A  diamond  of  a  poet's  mind 

Where  death  nor  hate  nor  strife. 

Oh  years,  oh  years,  that  cannot  last, 

Oh  spare  our  Poet  now, 
Tho'  he  that  sang :  "'Tis  past,  'tis  past !" 

With  youthhood  on  his  brow, 

Nor  dreamed,  nor  felt  the  Hand  of  Time 

Would  gently  reach  across 
The  loves  enborn  of  every  clime, 

And  we,  "our  loss,  our  loss !" 


OLIVER  W.  HOLMES. 


How  can  I  think  you  growing  old, 
When  all  the  world  seems  young; 

And  yet  the  story  plainly  told 
From  life  and  verse  has  rung. 

A  sober  tone  has  marked  the  lay 

Your  muse  has  caroled  late, 
But  yet,  ah  yet,  it  has  the  sway 

That  comes  to  man's  estate, 

When  Genius  pure,  and  grand  and  calm, 
Has  mellowed  through  the  years, 

And  o'er  its  life  a  golden  charm, 
As  rainbow  thro'  the  tears. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

I  read  the  "Shay,"  the  "One  Hoss  Shay," 

And  you  seem  laughing  too ; 
How  are  you  old  when  such  a  lay 

Seems  flashing  thro'  and  thro' 

Your  graver  smile,  your  sober  face, 

Tour  life  of  honored  years, 
Where  wisdom's  look  the  eye  may  trace, 

Tho'  blurred  by  laughter's  tears. 

It  cannot  be,  it  shall  not  be, 

Thy  hourglass  is  at  fault, 
The  virgin  Spring  in  all  her  beauty 

Finds  not  thy  pace  to  halt. 

Thy  youth  is  back,  thy  verse  is  young, 

Thy  harp  no  broken  string, 
Old  Time  has  but  a  requiem  sung 

Where  youth  is  on  the  wing. 

Go  back,  old  Time,  and  learn  the  rule 

That  adds  a  one  to  one, 
Or  was  it  college,  was  it  school, 

Where  things  were  half  way  done  ? 

Add  now  with  me,  "twice  four  are  eight, 

A  twenty  with  a  five, 
Just  thirty-three  upon  the  slate 

As  sure  as  you're  alive !" 

"Ah  ha,  ah  ha,  you  figure  so 

Because  you  love  him  yet, 
But  years  will  come,  and  years  will  go, 

That  Time  cannot  forget. 

"You  sum  the  sum  as  you  would  like 

To  have  it  from  the  heart, 
But  Father  Time  at  last  must  strike, 

Tho'  friend  and  poet  part." 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


I  little  dreamed  when  by  the  stream 

I  wandered  in  your  verse, 
That  age  at  last  would  cross  my  dream, 

And  other  lays  rehearse. 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIEE.  229 

But  Time  with  dewy-sandaled  feet, 

Has  gone  as  go  the  years, 
And  now  the  friends  that  fondly  meet, 

O'er  others  mourn  in  tears. 

You  sang  our  childhood's  happy  lay, 

The  barn  and  gabled  roof, 
Maud  Mullers  raked  the  new-mown  hay, 

With  halting  love  aloof. 

The  Barefoot  Boy  was  you  and  I, 

With  rich  Hesperian  fruit, 
No  voiced  woes  across  the  sky, 

'Twas  youth  that  made  them  mute. 

We  told  the  Bees,  and  told  them  o'er, 

Old  legends  strange  and  grand, 
A  something  of  the  light  did  pour 

That  lights  that  other  land. 

We  loved  your  verse  so  sweetly  toned, 

So  modest,  meek  and  mild, 
For  Nature  there  her  store  had  loaned 

In  beauty  undefiled. 

No  stately  phrase  and  pompous  mode, 

Were  in  thy  poet  songs, 
But  vernal  springs,  and  kine  that  lowed, 

And  Nature's  happy  throngs. 

The  Byrons  might  go  thundering  down 

In  verse  of  stately  move, 
But  discords  there  might  haply  drown 

A  home  of  perfect  love. 

Our  Poe  has  gone,  our  Bryant  grave, 

But  three  are  left  to  sing, 
And  may  the  flowers  that  o'er  them  wave, 

E'er  freshen  with  the  spring ! 

Our  Longfellow,  and  Whittier,  Holmes,— 

Ah  who  shall  take  their  place ! 
An  eye  that  e'en  as  vainly  roams, 

A  sad,  a  thoughtful  face. 

But  sing  thy  songs,  no  rival  yet 

Has  thrown  the  gauntlet  glove ; 
There  is  a  charm  that  none  forget 

About  the  lives  they  love. 


THE  GREAT  WHITE  SHIP. 


I  see  a  ship  with  sail  and  mast, 

A  crowd  embarking  there, 
It  is  as  he  whose  lot  is  cast, 

A  voyage  the  brave  may  dare ; 
I  see  all  nations  of  the  earth, 

The  high,  the  proud,  the  grand, 
The  blue -blood  lord  of  royal  birth, 

The  meek  and  modest  band. 

I  see  the  beggar  clad  in  rags, 

The  maid  with  rosy  smiles, 
The  miser  with  his  loaded  bags, 

The  babe  from  purer  isles ; 
The  banker  proud  and  formal  dressed, 

The  bride  that  late  was  wed, 
A  little  nursling  God  caressed, 

And  numbered  with  the  dead. 

I  see  a  graybeard  man  in  years, 

A  longing  in  his  look, 
A  broken  mother  bathed  in  tears, 

The  lovers  of  the  Book ; 
A  sea  that  never  knew  a  calm, 

A  ship  that  knows  no  tide, 
Nor  day  nor  night  with  sails  all  white, 

For  money,  love,  or  bride. 

I  see  the  man  that  ruled  the  state, 

The  judge  that  ruled  the  court, 
The  maid  and  youth  that  love  did  mate, 

The  scold  of  vile  report ; 
"And  I  have  hope  beyond  the  tomb, 

My  every  duty  done, 
As  flowers  that  live  and  blush  and  bloom, 

Beneath  the  golden  sun. 
330 


TEE  GREAT  WHITE  SHIP.  281 

"My  hope  has  lived  from  day  to  day, 

Has  cheered  from  hour  to  hour, 
A  something  tells  me  that  a  way 

Is  ope  to  perfect  flower!" 
And  others  talked.    The  beggar's  plea : 

"I've  done  the  best  I  knew, 
I  had  no  ships  upon  the  sea, 

My  roof  the  vaulted  blue. 

"I  gave  no  mite,  for  none  I  had, 

My  feast  a  crust  of  bread, 
I  know  the  people  called  me  bad, 

And  wished  that  I  were  dead." 
The  farmer :  "Yes,  I  knew  it  best, 

But  early  morn  and  eve, 
I  worked  and  worked,  and  work  has  blest, 

My  work  I  could  not  leave." 

The  lord  of  fashion  told  his  tale, 

For  each  had  his  excuse, 
The  little  babe  by  death  more  pale, 

No  language  did  abuse ; 
And  yet,  O  Heart!  O  human  Heart!  • 

E'en  Hope  is  born  of  death, 
The  dearest  friend  from  friend  may  part 

As  passing  of  a  breath. 

And  yet  the  lowest,  lowliest  slave, 

Shall  have  a  hope  beyond, 
A  something  mystic  from  the  grave 

Has  bound  with  holy  bond ; 
All  doctrines,  tenets,  rules,  and  laws, 

All  creeds  of  human  kind, 
Have  ceased  from  strife,  their  petty  wars 

'Tis  faith  and  hope  that  bind. 

The  Great  White  Ship  may  ^il  the  tide, 

Thro'  day,  and  eve,  and  night, 
But  never  yet  a  form  that  died, 

But  shed  a  rosier  light ! 
The  deepest  darkness  lends  a  ray, 

'Tis  God  that  claims  us  now, 
E'en  death  may  come  with  power  to  slay, 

Yet  Hope  shall  span  the  brow ! 

The  Great  White  Ship  shall  ope  the  eye 

Of  creed-fed  mortal  man, 
And  every  form  beneath  the  sky, 

Find  faith  and  hope  shall  span 


232  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Beyond  the  tomb,  across  the  Sea, 
To  brighter  realms  above, 

And  every  eye  that  could  not  see, 
E'en  paint  the  Throne  of  Love. 

Sail  on,  O  Ship !  with  freight  of  dead ! 

Sail  on  with  faith  and  hope, 
'Tis  I  can  see  the  form  that  bled, 

The  portal  standing  ope ; 
'Tis  I  that  have  a  faith  as  vast 

As  human  heart  can  find, 
'Tis  I  that  see  a  fruited  past, 

A  perished  world  behind. 

And  yet  a  something  not  of  earth, 

Has  told  me  all  is  well, 
That  death  is  but  a  second  birth, 

An  earthly  passing-bell! 
O  Man !  O  Woman !  born  of  dust ! 

The  Great  White  Ship  is  love ! 
'Tis  God  the  Helmsman  you  may  trust, 

Tho*  cloud  and  storm  above ! 


WHERE  TREES  O'ERHANG  THE  STREAM 

i. 

Where  trees  o'erhang  the  stream, 
,  And  waters  softly  flow, 

How  sweet  it  was  to  sit 
And  watch  the  ripples  go. 

n. 

The  trees  spread  high  above, 

The  clouds  were  sailing  there, 
The  clouds  were  on  the  stream 

In  shapes  fantastic  fair. 

in. 
We  saw  the  faded  boat 

Below  us  on  the  wave, 
The  boatmen  on  the  shore 

Where  merry  waters  lave. 

IV. 

The  flowers  were  at  our  feet, 

The  flowers  were  at  our  back, 
The  waters  stretched  before 

A  broad  and  silvery  track. 


WHERE  TREES  O'ERHANG  THE  STREAM. 


THE  FEAT.  233 


V. 
And  careless  of  the  hours 

We  watched  the  waters  flow, 
Half  hid  amid  the  flowers 

That  wildly  bloom  and  blow. 

VI. 

No  thought  of  coming  morrows, 
No  guess  of  days  to  be, 

But  waifs  of  fairy  childhood 
Our  hearts  were  light  and  free. 


THE  FRAY. 


I  see  them  marching  o'er  the  wold, 

The  drum  no  requiem  note, 
In  poet's  song  the  cannon  rolled, 

The  banner  proud  did  float. 

I  see  the  battle  raging  there, 
The  charge,  the  wild  retreat, 

The  cannon's  mouth  the  brave  did  dare, 
'Mid  shot,  and  shell,  and  heat. 

I  hear  above  the  mingled  din 

The  cry  of  "Victory,  on !" 
I  see  the  kin  go  down  with  kin, 

A  brave  'mid  battle  born. 

The  steeds  were  mad,  e'en  madder  yet 
The  warriors  bronzed  and  brown ; 

Such  bravery  may  the  bard  forget, 
Tho'  valor  mowed  them  down  ? 

They  met,  a  force  against  a  force, 

That  marched  to  do  or  die, 
And  sabre  thrust  and  trumpet  hoarse, 

Appalled  beneath  the  sky. 

We  see  them  now  in  serried  rank, 

"March,  march!"  he  said; 
A  crash,  a  roar,  and  faces  blank, 
•  And  heroes  with  the  dead. 


234:  THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

Their  valor  won  them  lasting  fame, 

A  fame  that  rivals  yet 
The  brightest  won  'mid  smoke  and  flame, 

Where  death  and  warriors  met. 

The  fray  was  long,  and  fold  on  fold, 
The  day  went  sinking  down, 

Until  in  king-god's  shimmering  gold, 
We  saw  them  dead  and  brown. 

We  looked  across  the  conquered  field, 
Confusion  reigned  around ; 

"And  thou  art  dead,  but  did  not  yield 
Till  icy  death  had  bound. 

"Thy  glory  long,  resplendent  yet, 
Where  other  warriors  fell, 

A  hero  there  a  hero  met, 
'Mid  din,  and  shock,  and  shell. 

"Our  wreaths  are  twined  across  thy  brow, 
Tho'  laureled  with  the  dead ; 

We  love  our  country,  even  thou 
That  bravely  fought  and  bled." 


THE  HOUSE  WHERE  I  WAS  BORN, 

The  springs  have  gone  from  spring  to  spring, 

And  winter's  cold  to  cold, 
While  many  a  life  on  buoyant  wing 

The  passing-bell  has  tolled. 

The  years  have  gone  till  thirty  now 

Are  numbered  with  the  past ; 
That  baby  face,  that  baby  brow, 

They  could  not,  could  not  last. 

That  father  once  so  full  of  hope, 

Of  sacred  love  and  life,   • 
Has  gone  from  earth,  and  friends  may  grope 

Where  doubt  and  dread  are  rife. 

I  little  dreamed  as  time  should  go 

From  day  to  passing  day,         , 
That  death  at  last  would  strike  a  blow, 

And  sweep  the  flowers  of  May. 


SPRING  HAS  COME.  235 

Old  House !  my  home,  my  baby  throne, 

I  love  thy  lack  of  grace, 
A  something  there  that  I  would  own, 

That  I  alone  can  trace. 

Yet  other  forms,  and  other  hearts, 

Have  graced  thy  sacred  floors, 
A  beauty  there  above  the  arts, 

A  light  from  other  shores. 

I  see  a  babe  that  grew  a  flower, 

And  heart  and  heart  made  one, 
A  tottling  strength,  but  sceptered  power, 

With  splendors  of  the  sun. 

But  death  has  come  across  the  scene, 

The  flowers  are  lying  low, 
And  yet  a  something  shines  between 

All  blending  like  the  bow. 

Sweet  Hope  shall  span  beyond  the  tomb. 

Across  the  surging  stream, 
And  flowers  of  Life  as  sweet  in  bloom 

As  youthhood's  happy  dream. 

A  light  shall  clear  the  tangled  shade, 

And  lay  across  its  form 
A  beauty  that  can  never  fade, 

The  bow  that  crowns  the  storm. 

But  yet,  old  house,  my  dear  old  home, 

A  sad,  a  last  adieu ; 
Thou  art  a  greater  than  a  Rome, 

A  Greece  that  fronts  the  blue ! 


SPRING  HAS  COME. 


And  Spring  has  come  from  softer  vales, 

Across  my  cottage  home, 
With  zephyrs  soft  and  balmy  gales, 

And  flowers  upon  the  loam, 
With  love  and  joy  that  are  of  Spring, 

When  Spring  is  in  her  bloom, 
And  vines  that  round  her  softly  cling, 

All  shorn  of  Winter's  gloom. 


236  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  robin's  note  in  plaintive  strain, 

Is  sweet  among  the  trees, 
And  hoary  winter  late  in  reign, 

Has  gone  to  Arctic  seas ; 
The  grass  is  thick  upon  the  lawn 

Across  the  lilied  field, 
And  flowers,  queens  of  eve  and  dawn, 

Their  virgin  beauties  yield. 

Sweet  May  has  crowned  the  lovely  scene 

With  beauty  shorn  of  art, 
And  Nature  in  her  robes  of  green, 

Has  won  the  poet's  heart ; 
The  love  of  loves  seems  now  afoot 

In  meadow,  field,  and  farm, 
And  regal  joys  like  starlights  shoot 

In  many  a  varied  charm. 

And  song  and  laughter  from  the  hills 

Are  rippling  with  the  stream, 
And  weed  and  flower  beside  the  rills, 

In  varied  beauty  gleam ; 
E'en  narrow  thought  in  breasts  of  men, 

Has  broadened  with  the  day, 
And  Winter  there  so  cold  in  reign, 

Has  ta'en  the  charm  of  May ! 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Thou  Singer  sweet  of  wood  and  vale, 

The  flower  that  decks  the  loam, 
Sweet  Nature  wept  and  still  may  wail, 

That  thou  art  taken  home. 

But  yet  her  woe  shall  solace  find 

For  he  who  sang  her  praise, 
Upon  her  breast  at  last  reclined 

'Mid  springhood's  flowery  bays. 

Thy  Harp  unstrung  yet  echoes  far 

From  clime  to  farthest  clime, 
Tho'  rounding  moon  and  listening  star 

Have  gone  from  prime  to  prime. 

The  poet's  tale  is  never  dead 
Tho'  years  shall  sing  his  death, 


LONGFELLOW.  237 

His  verse  and  life  eternal  wed 
Are  fresh  upon  the  breath. 

The  moon  looks  down  upon  thy  grave 

With  pale  and  hallowed  face, 
And  as  the  flowers  all  sweetly  wave, 

A  tear  the  heart  may  trace. 

For  moon  and  star  and  flowered  wold, 

The  daisy  pied  and  blue, 
Have  charmed  thy  verse  tho'  years  are  old 

Where  life  retains  its  dew. 

Thou  told  us  in  thy  rugged  verse 

That  death  was  never  grim, 
Thy  moments  last  did  but  rehearse 

The  tale  again  to  Him. 

Thy  life  went  out  as  waning  moon,  .  . 

With  yet  a  presence  left 
Of  something  that  had  all  too  soon 

A  home  and  friend  bereft. 

• 

The  words  we  said  were  not  of  fear, 

We  loved  you  to  the  last ; 
A  heart  and  soul  that  shed  the  tear, 

That  said :  "  'Tis  past,  'tis  past  I" 

Yet  we  that  saw  the  moving  hearse, 

Yet  hoped  with  Hope  in  tears, 
That  death  was  but  in  poet's  verse, 

That  thou  wert  hale  in  years. 

But  hoping  heart !  oh  blinding  doubt ! 

Thy  Forest-Hymn  may  sound 
O'er  life  and  death  with  starlights  out, 

The  flowers  above  thy  mound  I 


LONGFELLOW. 

Oh  hush !  sweet  bird,  for  I  would  hear 
Nor  voice  nor  bird  nor  rill, 

The  flowers  I  fling  may  grace  his  bier, 
But  he  is  silent  still ! 


THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

The  grief  I  feel  nor  any  word, 

Nor  psalm  nor  song  can  tell ; 
A  something  there  my  soul  has  heard 

In  muffled  funeral  bell. 

The  Harp  of  Death  has  rung  at  last, 

But  yet  my  soul,  e'en  yet, 
A  voice  may  whisper,  "All  is  past!" 

Can  we,  can  we  forget? 

A  scholar-bard,  'twas  thus  they  said ; 

A  child  might  read  his  verse : 
O  human  woe  that  he  is  dead! 

Our  flowers  are  on  his  hearse ! 

Oh  love!  oh  hope!  oh  veiling  tears ! 

Oh  heart  benumbed  and  cold ! 
Oh  hour  of  hours  thro'  all  the  years ! 

Oh  tomb  across  the  wold ! 

Oh  Whittier,  Holmes,  my  English  bard  !* 

Oh  pain,  oh  wailing  grief ! 
The  skies  are  bended  golden  starred, 

Yet  Death  is  on  the  leaf! 

They  said:  "Oh  Death!  oh  child  of  gloom, 

We  prayed,  but  heard  us  not ; 
The  March  winds  blew,  the  Spring  in  bloom: 

We  love,  but  bard  forgot?" 

And  I  had  died ;  but  be  it  so, 

The  loved  are  chosen  first ; 
Oh  day  of  days !  no  wild  flowers  blow, 

The  very  Spring's  accurst ! 

And  yet,  oh  Grief !  oh  wailing  voice, 

A  whisper  from  the  gloom : 
"We  love,  we  love,  rejoice,  rejoice, 

There  Springs  eternal  bloom!" 

Oh  loved  and  lost !  oh  Harp  unstrung! 

Oh  world  in  vainest  tears ! 
The  requiem  note  at  last  has  rung, 

And  dies  among  the  spheres ! 

*Tennyson. 


TENNYSON.  239 

The  lid  is  closed !    We  turn  away, 

The  surging  crowd  is  gone ; 
'Twas  Death  came  there !    His  natal  day 

Among  the  stars  of  Dawn  I 


TENNYSON. 


Oh  Child  of  Keats  in  loveliest  verse ! 

In  thought,  and  speech,  and  phrase, 
A  foreign  bard  might  soft  rehearse, 

And  crown  thy  brow  with  bays ! 

The  May-Queens  charmed  us  long  ago, 

With  tear  and  tender  smile, 
The  flowers  blush,  and  bloom,  and  blow, 

That  time  shall  not  defile. 

Thou  art  the  Laureate  of  the  world, 

The  bard  of  dantiest  thought, 
Thy  banner  floats  to-day  unfurled 

O'er  palace,  home,  and  cot. 

We  fought  you  hard  when  first  you  came, 

With  satire,  gibe,  and  jest, 
For  Byrons  with  their  fire  and  flame 

The  very  gods  had  dressed ! 

But  when  thy  verse  so  calm  and  free, 

Had  schooled  in  higher  schools, 
We  gave  thee  fame,  immortality, 

And  angled  in  the  pools. 

Above  the  milldams  rushing  hoarse, 

Where  placid  grandeur  shone, 
While  stream  in  gay  theatric  course 

Caught  sweetness  in  its  tone. 

The  Miller's  Daughter  won  the  heart 

Of  throng  on  surging  throng, 
And  many  a  floweret  soft  did  start 

From  out  thy  magic  song. 

You  changed  our  thought,  you  calmed  our  mind, 

You  tamed  the  surging  breast, 
Ionian  balms  were  on  the  wind, 

The  Muses  stood  confest! 


240  THE  LADY  OF  DAKDALE. 

Your  Cupids  breathed  a  softer  sigh, 

Your  loves  a  tenderer  tone, 
And  flowers  and  lilies  'neath  the  sky 

In  rarest  beauty  shone. 

We  bayed  and  crowned,  and  crowned  again, 
We  'rayed  like  queens  of  May, 

Thy  flowers  were  blooming  o'er  the  main 
In  mild  seraphic  sway. 

Our  love  is  thine,  tho'  Eros  maid, 
We  fought  thy  wildered  plea ; 

But  recreant  love  at  last  obeyed, 
And  crowned  thee  god  of  Beauty ! 


GOOD  MORNING,  MAY. 


Good  morning,  May !  a  little  cool, 

But  time  I  trow,  I  wot, 
Was  never  cold  when  you  came  round 

By  softer  breezes  caught ; 
You  gave  us  flowers,  and  May-queen  maids. 

With  hue  of  love  and  health, 
You  crowned  the  year  in  flowered  'ray 

With  balms  and  Lydian  wealth. 

Your  horn  of  plenty  lavished  forth 

A  thousand  varied  joys, 
With  flowers,  and  maids,  and  amorous  girls,, 

And  rosy  Paphian  boys ; 
Profusion  rich  and  rarest  rare 

You  showered  from  every  nook, 
And  rosy  spring  did  laugh  and  smile 

Like  any  meadow  brook ! 

You  gave  us  wealth  of  mind  and  thought, 

A  lover's  buoyant  heart, 
And  all  the  world  seemed  one  great  smile, 

That  never  would  depart. 
Oh  May  !  oh  May  !  oh  flowery  May ! 

Oh  queen  month  of  the  year  ! 
Thy  world  of  song  and  flowers  fair, 

The  poorest  heart  may  cheer! 


THE  TIME  TO  LOVE. 

Thy  sister  June  is  rich  and  rare, 

As  rare  as  humble  worth, 
But  you,  my  May,  my  flowery  May ! 

More  perfect  in  your  birth ; 
The  chilly  breeze  has  flown  afar 

Across  the  raging  deep, 
But  you,  my  May,  my  loveliest  May, 

A  guileless  babe  asleep ! 


THE  TIME  TO  LOVE. 


Oh  now's  the  time,  my  guileless  youth, 

To  woo  the  fair-haired  maid, 
The  very  month  will  tell  the  tale, 

If  you  a  bit  afraid ; 
The  roses  twine  as  you  may  twine 

The  maiden  in  your  arms, 
But  ah  !  take  care  !  lest  all  you  lose 

In  Cupid's  luring  charms ! 

She's  coy  and  shy,  but  in  her  eye 

Sweet  Eros  stands  atilt, 
Take  care  !  take  care  !  the  honeyed  blade 

Is  buried  to  the  hilt ! 
Oh  do  not  sigh,  oh  do  not  cry, 

The  pain  will  soon  be  o'er, 
You  stayed  too  long,  you  wooed  too 'well, 

I  told  you  all  before  ! 

And  here  is  Cupid,  take  your  shield, 

Your  sword  and  feathered  dart, 
He's  practiced  from  the  birth  of  time, 

His  battles  are  the  heart ; 
Now  study  well  the  stealing  leaf 

That  decks  the  fragrant  tree, 
'Tis  thus  he  steals  across  the  soul 

In  never  matched  beauty. 

You  did  ?  and  why  that  heaving  breast. 

That  ever  roving  eye, 
Dissatisfaction  in  your  look, 

A  face  to  laugh  or  cry  ? 

16 


242  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

Go  tell  your  friends  of  Cupid's  wile, 

His  machinations  all, 
It  cost  you  dear,  but  said  and  done 

Would  you  the  heart  recall  ? 


THE  RAREST  TIME. 


And  now  the  time,  the  rarest  time 

Of  all  the  varied  year, 
Has  come  afresh  from  Eden  vales, 

With  Nature's  lavish  cheer ; 
The  Autumn  brook  that  lost  its  song 

When  Fall  was  crowned  with  death, 
Is  now  the  merriest  singer  out, 

With  rich  perfumed  breath. 

Sweet  June  will  come,  but  May  is  here 

Her  basket  filled  with  flowers, 
And  all  the  air,  and  all  the  gale, 

Are  rich  from  lilied  bowers ; 
And  freshness,  brightness,  joys  atilt, 

Outstart  from  every  scene, 
While  Nature  seems  a  laughing  song, 

With  rosy  smiles  between. 

The  dullest  wight  has  ta'en  a  start, 

The  flowers  are  dancing  gay, 
And  music  rich  from  Nature's  harp, 

Has  chimed  a  perfect  lay ; 
And  life,  and  joy,  and  brightness  now, 

In  vale  and  meadow  scene, 
The  brides-maids  with  their  flowered  arms, 

Like  fairies  on  the  green ! 

O  rarest  time  !    O  loveliest  time ! 

Of  all  the  varied  year ! 
The  world  takes  on  its  brightest  smile, 

And  says :  "I'm  glad  I'm  here !" 
The  chanticleer  rings  in  the  morn, 

And  Phoebus  crowns  the  day, 
Whi'e  business  wields  his  wonted  poorer, 

From  Ind  to  old  Cataay. 


A  REVERIE. 


•  "Yes,  I'm  past  my  teens,  but  list, 
Light  and  shade  have  ever  kist, 
Mine  has  been  a  life  of  woe, 
Where  the  turgid  waters  flow, 
Where  the  scenes  did  seem  to  be 
Frought  for  aye  with  misery ; 
Time  has  laid  the  picture  bare, 
All  the  past  made  faultless  fair, 
All  the  scenes  that  seemed  of  woe 
Blended  like  the  far  rainbow. 
He  came  as  help  to  father's  farm 

When  we  were  in  our  teens, 
And  hours  went  by  in  varied  charm, 

In  bright  seraphic  sheens ; 
Unconscious  as  the  sweet  wild  flower, 

We  twined  and  grew  in  strength, 
And  Cupid  came  from  dappled  bower 

And  bound  our  lives  at  length. 
I  mind  me  now  the  song  he  sang, 

The  songs  he  sang  to  me, 
And  maiden  fairies  tripped  along 

In  merry-footed  beauty. 

SONG. 

"  'My  little  Bess,  my  fair-haired  maid, 

If  love  come  on  are  you  afraid  ?' 

"  'Ah,  never,  never  fear  for  me, 

For  love  to  you  is  love  to  me.' 

"  'But  love  is  such  a  heartless  god 

The  thorny  rose  may  deck  his  rod, 

For  'neath  the  petal  briars  may  show, 

And  paint  a  scene  of  varied  woe.' 

"  'But  ne'er  you  mind,  the  fault's  my  own 

If  thorny  rose  is  only  blown, 

For  I  must  take  my  chances  there, 

As  many  hearts  that  love  did  pair.' 

243 


844  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"  'Your  pa  is  rich,  and  I  am  poor, 
I  may  not  be  the  chosen  wooer ; 
But  love  is  such  a  flighty  thing, 
He'll  soon  be  off  upon  the  wing.' 
"  'And  love  to  pause  for  gaudy  wealth  ? 
'Tis  there  he'll  come  tho'  come  by  steal  thf 
And  love  to  be  a  flighty  thing, 
And  soon  as  found  be  on  the  wing? 
'Tis  true  of  like  but  not  of  love, 
He  comes  of  heaven,  is  born  above, 
And  once  he  comes  to  heart  of  maid 
He  may  not  die  tho'  life  shall  fade/ 
"The  hours  went  by,  and  time  made  never  a  halt, 
And  like  from  like  to  love  had  grown ;  but  we 
Had  never  felt  a  fear.    The  hours  might  go 
And  leave  their  varied  tale  of  misery 
And  woe ;  but  half  unconscious  of  our  state, 
The  minutes  shaped  to  hours,  and  hours  were  crowned' 
By  days,  and  days  were  laureled  by  the  months, 
And  months  by  rounded  years ;  and  he  was  gone 
From  father's  fields !    But  we  should  meet  again 
In  nearest  future,  fortune  smiling  then 
Her  rarest  smile.    But  I  am  past  my  teens ! 
Yes,  little  maiden  reader,  even  more, 
An  old,  old  maid,  they  tell  me,  thoughtless  girls 
Who  seek  to  tease  me  for  my  wasted  years 
Have  told  me.    'Yes,  she  loved.    He  was  the  help. 
He  held  the  plow.    He  drove  the  team ;  but  love 
Came  dancing  o'er  the  eastern  hills.    The  furrow 
Turned  love  on  every  sod ;  and  then  there  grew 
A  bulky  Care  that  had  no  hours  of  rest, 
And  she,  poor  maid,  was  dead  in  love !    The  days 
Went  dancing  by,  and  merry  minstrels  tuned 
Their  harps  to  love,  and  framed  a  faultless  ditty. 

DITTY. 

A  farmer  hired  a  braw  young  youth, 
He  loved  a  maiden  all  in  truth, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

He  loved  her  then,  he  loves  her  now, 
'Twas  love  that  made  the  maiden  bow, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

Oh  come  ye  maids  that  read  of  love, 
The  rosy  god  was  born  above, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 


A  EEVEEIE.  245 

The  minutes  caught  the  laughing  hours, 
The  fairy-queens  were  in  the  bowers, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

The  farmer  paid  the  fair  young  man, 
The  summer  sun  his  face  did  tan, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

He  went  across  the  clovered  field, 
But  love  with  love  had  there  appealed, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

He  drove  the  young  man  from  the  farm, 
The  daughter  faded,  lost  her  charm, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

And  thus  they  sang,  and  to  my  ears  it  sounded 
A-like  a  dirge.    1  could  not  listen ;  thoughts 
Came  pouring,  burdening  with  oppressive  woes, 
Like  weights  upon  my  life.    I  wandered  then 
Across  the  autumn  fields  where  he  and  I 
Together  walking,  built  the  castles  love 
Could  rear  from  faintest  shred  of  hope,  and  all 
The  future  bright  with  star,  and  sun,  and  moon, 
And  dappled  dawn,  outshone.    But  hark !  I  hear 
A  noise  as  rapid  steeds  in  anger  freed 
From  hand  of  straint.    And  can  it  be !  it  be  I* 

And  now  the  tale  has  found  an  end, 
The  past  and  present  sweetly  blend, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

She  waited  till  her  teens  were  by, 
The  light  had  faded  from  her  eye, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

Her  pa  repented  long  ago, 
But  love  alone  could  heal  her  woe, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

The  years  had  gone,  and  she  was  old, 
The  suitors  came  with  bags  of  gold, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

At  last  a  stranger  came  to  town, 
His  steeds  were  mettled,  chestnut  brown, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

They  were  affrighted  in  the  e'en, 
The  sun  had  sunk  in  golden  sheen,   ^ 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 


246  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALK- 

The  farmer  stood  within  his  door, 
He  saw  the  carriage  hurled  o'er, 

And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair- 
He  picked  the  stranger  from  the  sod ; 
"And  O  my  God !  and  O  my  God !" 

And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

"My  daughter !  this  thine  early  love ! 
The  very  gods  be  blest  above !" 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

He  had  more  gold  than  East  or  Ind ! 
They  nursed  him  back,  but  Cupid's  blind. 
And  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  fair. 

The  wedding  came  with  rose  and  flower, 
And  never  earth  such  happy  hour, 
And  she  was  fair,  and  very  fair. 


EROS. 


"Oh  Eros  rich,  oh  Eros  rare, 

Oh  Eros,  Eros,  Eros, 
We  hate  your  look,  your  style,  your  form, 

Oh  do  not  come  so  near  us  ! 
Oh  do  not  come,  oh  do  not  come, 

For  we  are  unbelieving, 
The  men  are  but  a  hateful  set, 

And  fondest  of  deceiving !" 

A  peddler  comes  adown  the  lane 

The  rarest  in  his  packet ; 
"And  she's  a  maid,  a  silly  maid, 

So  foolish  as  to  lack  it ; 
I  have  assortments  rich  and  rare 

From  Eden  and  A  ready, 
And  he's  a  king,  a  very  king, 

Who  gets  it  for  his  lady  !" 

And  all  forgetful  of  their  guard, 
Their  shield  for  guileless  beauties,- 

They  look  to  right,  nor  look  to  left, 
But  stare  as  '  twere  their  duties. 


LOVE.  247 


The  peddler  shows  his  stock  in  trade, 
"And  this  or  that  a  shilling  I" 

And  sparkling  eyes,  and  eager  hands, 
Are  all  too  willing,  willing! 

And  now  the  vender  casts  his  guise, 

And  Cupid  stands  a-laughing, 
But  all  too  late  with  scaleless  eyes, 

They  find  he's  been  a-chaffing ! 
So  maiden  rich,  and  maiden  rare, 

He  comes  in  every  calling, 
The  high,  the  low,  the  plain,  the  fair, 

Are  caught  and  found  a-f  ailing  I 


LOVE. 


You  see  that  fisher  by  the  pool 

Half  waking  and  half  dozing, 
Sweet  love  is  like  the  nibble  first, 

The  fish  and  fisher  posing ; 
You  drop  the  line  to  catch  a  shad 

In  sort  of  classic  angling, 
Kaleidoscopic  is  the  view, 

A  "pollywog"  entangling. 

A  movement  comes  as  faint  as  love 

Upon  the  face  of  lasses, 
You  struggle  hard,  and  down  there  falls 

A  fish  among  the  rashes ; 
You  put  a  glass  to  either  eye 

That  adds  not  to  your  seeing, 
And  like  a  fisher  at  the  show, 

Keep  peering  and  a-peering. 

A  polished  judge  in  courts  of  law 

Knows  not  the  laws  of  courting, 
But  still  a  judge,  and  full  of  pride, 

This  tale  finds  a  reporting : 
"A  fisher  and  Love  went  out  to  fish, 

In  pools  too  deep  for  angling, 
And  what  a  pretty,  pretty  dish, 

Sweet  love  the  fisher  tangling ! 


248  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

"He  cast  his  line  for  silvered  shad 

Below  the  silvered  water, 
And  now  he  pleads  like  one  gone  mad 

For  bright  haired  fisher's  daughter ! 
Oh  Love !  oh  Love !  a  fishing  went, 

The  fisher  took  the  baiting, 
And  Cupid  stands  his  bow  all  bent, 

While  fisher  and  love  are  mating. 


SPRING  WOULD  COME. 


And  I  had  said  the  Spring  would  come 

With  rarest  balms  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  birds  from  farm  and  fold, 

Have  told  it  to  the  hours ; 
The  robin  here,  the  swallow  there, 

The  blackbird  in  the  bushes, 
The  brownie  rich  of  rarest  song, 

Where  songful  brooklet  pushes. 

The  very  kine  with  mellow  eyne, 

Have  told  it  in  their  lowing, 
And  Love  atilt  across  the  field, 

His  Spring-tide  trump  is  blowing ; 
The  very  air,  the  birds  that  pair, 

E'en  sweetly  waving  grasses, 
Have  told  the  tale  from  hill  and  dale, 

Alas,  and  lovely  lasses ! 

So  cheer,  my  man,  with  face  of  tan, 

The  Spring  in  all  her  beauty, 
Shall  man  the  heart,  where  ne'er  shall  part 

The  homely  god  of  duty ; 
The  plow  may  cut  the  furrowed  field, 

While  all  the  world  is  ringing, 
The  song  and  laughter  have  outpealed, 

The  birds  in  rarest  singing. 

So,  wake  ye  all,  for  flowers  fall 

From  Nature's  lavish  coffer, 
While  youth  and  maid  that  Love  had  'rayed, 

Shall  plead,  and  blush,  and  offer ; 


BESIDE  HER  BABY'S  GRAVE. 

Ambition  now  shall  take  a  start, 
And  thoughts  of  grandest  motion, 

While  Nature's  organ  o'er  the  heart 
Peals  sweetly  as  the  ocean. 


BESIDE  HER  BABY'S  GRAVE, 


O  Ingersoll  with  awful  Doubt ! 

This  mother  cannot  read  ! 
This  widowed  mother  all  alone, 

Alone  where  death  has  freed 
Her  darling  baby  from  the  cares, 

The  wants,  the  hopes  of  life ; 
She  cannot  read,  and  yet  her  heart 

Finds  consolation  rife. 

"Oh,  by  low  baby,  by  low  by," 

She  sang  at  hush  of  eve ; 
The  morning  dawned,  her  baby  dead, 

As  bended  flower  may  grieve, 
She  wept  and  wept  her  bitter  tears, 

She  wept  the  long  day  thro', 
Alone,  alone,  now  all  alone, 

No  starlights  in  the  blue. 

And  "by  low  baby"  like  a  dirge 

Came  sounding  hollow  there ; 
No  earthly  friend  could  soothe  her  pain. 

"My  angel  baby  where, 
O  where  thy  little  harmless  soul?" 

And  Faith  stood  by  the  grave ; 
And  now  the  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

And  now  there  rolled  a  wave. 

She  saw  her  baby  angel  winged, 

The  grave  was  at  her  feet, 
She  saw  the  empty  cradle  then, 

And  "by  low  baby"  sweet 
Unconscious  fell,  and  then  the  tears 

Were  in  her  eyes ;  but  came 
A  voice  in  tender  tones :  "And  love 

Has  made  you  name  a  name 


350  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE*. 

"To  earth,  to  earth  no  longer  known, 

'Twas  love  made  death  thy  guest ; 
If  all  were  known,  the  grave  would  be 

A  place  of  holy  rest." 
'Twas  faith  that  came  and  talked, 

And  from  the  flowered  sod 
She  turned  in  tears ;  her  tears  were  dry 

Her  faith  and  hope  in  God. 

O  Ingersoll !  forbear !  forbear ! 

Let  faith  be  born  of  death  I 
'Twere  wicked  that  the  creed  should  rob 

The  hope  beneath  the  breath  ! 
Let  love  and  hope  go  hand  in  hand, 

And  faith  of  "We  are  Seven," 
Still  paint  a  better,  brighter  land, 

With  every  soul  in  Heaven  I 


THE  MAY-QUEEN. 


We  crowned  her  there  the  Queen  of  May, 

With  garlands  rich  and  rare, 
And  brighter  eyes  nor  merrier  lay, 

That  crowned  her  fairest  fair ; 
No  jealous  thought  in  heart  of  maid, 

The  youth  that  stood  around, 
While  Love  and  Beauty  softly  'rayed 

With  choicest  to  be  found. 

The  songs  we  sung  were  tuned  of  love, 

And  beauty  of  the  Spring, 
While  sacred  joys  from  realms  above 

A  rainbow  o'er  did  fling; 
We  danced  the  May-dance  on  the  green,. 

While  music  soft  around, 
Did  echo  but  the  song,  I  ween, 

In  every  joy-breast  found. 

'Twas  love  and  life  from  Eden  vales, 

Tne  bourne  across  the  blue, 
And  Cupid  there  with  ravished  tales,. 

Was  mating  two  and  two ; 


OH,    COME  A-L 0  VING. 

The  day  flew  by,  the  hours  apace 
Brought  even's  dewy  balms, 

But  Eros  there  with  blissful  face, 
Was  king  in  all  his  charms! 

The  scene  has  gone  with  other  joys, 

Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
But  many  there  who  laughed  as  boys,. 

Are  strong  in  manhood's  prime ; 
And  just  a  bit  of  gossip  now, 

A-many  a  two  grew  one, 
'Twas  Cupid  stood  upon  the  prow 

And  sang :  I've  won !  I've  won  1" 


OH,  COME  A-LOVING. 


Oh  come  a-loving,  come  a-loving, 

Oh  come  a-loving  now, 
The  bells  are  ringing,  bells  are  ringing, 

Sweet  Cupid  makes  a  bow. 
''And  who  is  winning,  who  is  winning, 

A  maiden  or  a  lord? 
I've  every  love  from  first  beginning 

That  time  has  never  outlawed. 

"The  love  of  money,  love  of  money, 

The  love  of  honest  worth, 
From  Eden  all  her  loves  of  honey, 

The  love  of  wealth  or  birth ; 
The  love  that's  jealous,  love  that's  jealous, 

And  daggers  all  the  heart, 
I've  every  shade,  no  law'll  compell  us 

To  take  one  and  depart." 

The  hod  he  carries,  hod  he  carries, 

But  love  has  found  him  out, 
He  smirks  and  smiles,  and  then  he  marries, 

Oh  what  is  love  about  ? 
She  wears  her  laces,  wears  her  laces, 

Yet  love  is  more  than  these, 
In  hall  and  hut  we  find  his  traces, 

E'en  on  the  broadest  seas. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

So  come  in  beauty,  come  in  beauty, 

And  come  in  any  guise, 
You'll  find  the  chance  the  sweetest  duty 

E'er  seen  of  mortal  eyes ; 
And  he's  a-fooling,  he's  a-fooling, 

Who  takes  no  lottery  card, 
And  needs  a  sort  of  classic  schooling 

By  North  Street's  humble  bard. 


BURNS. 


Oh  Robert  Burns,  'tis  you  and  I 

From  farm  or  field  of  duty, 
Must  woo  the  Muses  from  the  sky, 

And  Poesy's  queens  of  beauty ; 
We  have  no  wealth  to  win  the  love 

Of  wight  or  lord  of  fashion, 
We  sing  our  songs,  and  stars  above 

Look  down  in  soft  compassion. 

We  envy  but  the  lordling's  time, 

His  moments  spent  in  folly, 
And  while  he  tires,  we  softly  rhyme 

Of  maidens  rich  and  jolly ; 
We  steal  from  sleep  the  precious  hour 

That  gives  a  grain  of  knowledge, 
And  fays  and  fairies  in  the  bower, 

A  scholar  out  of  college. 

The  richest  lords  of  Ind  we  grow, 

And  paint  a  golden  palace, 
The  coarser  thoughts  that  sometimes  flow, 

We  cleanse  in  poesy's  chalice, 
And  night  with  dusky  wing  becomes 

An  Eden  full  of  flowers, 
The  bird  that  sings,  the  bee  that  hums, 

The  rose  from  rarest  bowers. 

So  Burns,  my  Burns,  my  Robby  Burns, 
We'll  woo  beyond  the  heather, 

Tho'  Fortune  come  by  freaks  and  turns, 
And  clouds  and  stormy  weather ; 


A  BLIND  HUNTER  LAD. 

And  lords  of  faskion,  lords  of  art, 
Are  welcome  to  their  folly, 

'Tis  you  and  I  in  humble  part, 
Will  jolly  be,  and  jolly! 


A  BLIND  HUNTER  LAD, 

There  came  a  little  hunter  lad, 

"Oh  maiden,  fay  or  fairy, 
I'm  always  young  and  never  old, 

But  blindness  makes  me  tarry ; 
I've  been  the  sight  of  youth  and  maid 

From  Eden's  days  of  beauty, 
But  now  I  call  upon  the  fair 

To  do  an  artless  duty. 

"I've  lost  my  way,  and  cannot  find 

My  grotto  bathed  in  glory, 
I  know  you  fair  and  very  kind, 

My  worth  is  in  the  story ; 
I  placed  my  quiver  on  my  back 

To  hunt  the  fatted  forest, 
And  now  alack,  alack, 

My  tale  it  is  the  sorest! 

"My  eyes  were  bright  as  any  deer's, 

As  roamed  I  thro'  the  thicket, 
But  darkness  fell  across  my  tears, 

And  hid  the  open  wicket ;" 
The  maiden  took  his  dimpled  hand, 

"And  oh  my  rosy  darling, 
"We'll  find  the  wicket  where  a  band 

Of  fays  and  rarest  starling." 

And  strolled  they  on  from  nook  to  nook, 

From  mountains  high  and  hoary, 
And  sang  the  birds,  the  merry  brook, 

The  lakes  in  sheeted  glory ; 
"Oh  here  we  are  like  glinting  star, 

In  haunts  of  old  Arcady !" 
And  flew  the  shaft,  the  winged  bar, 

For  Love  had  found  his  lady ! 


A  LETTEE  TO 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Good  morning,  sir,  a  country  bard 

Among  New  England  hills, 
Has  sung  his  songs  unknown,  unstarred, 

Of  native  flowers  and  rills ; 
He  sang  the  woodbine  twining  round 

A-many  a  rustic  scene, 
The  youth  and  maiden  lily  bound, 

In  nature's  starlight  sheen. 

He  sang  of  war,  he  sang  of  fame, 

A  hero  in  the  ranks, 
And  many  a  beauty  there  did  claim 

From  rare  and  rustic  banks ; 
He  sang  alone,  untutored  then, 

From  native  flame  and  fire, 
His  store  of  knowledge  was  the  brain, 

'Twas  love  that  swept  the  lyre. 

He  knew  no  peace  unless  the  Muse 

Entwined  him  in  her  arms, 
He  had  but  love,  and  love  to  choose, 

A  maiden  in  her  charms ; 
A  fame  and  name  were  least  of  all 

The  shapers  of  his  verse, 
'Twere  beauties  there,  and  birds  that  call, 

'Twere  they  that  did  rehearse. 

Old  Labor  once  the  gift  of  all, 

Had  crowned  him  at  the  first, 
But  muses  danced  across  the  hall 

To  music  rare  as  erst ; 
He  looked  with  cold  mechanic  eye 

To  see  them  tread  the  air, 
And  such  a  merry  train  went  by, 

He  seemed  in  half  despair. 
254 


A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  W.  HOLMES.  255 

"Oh  what  is  this  ?    Why  should  the  son 

In  humble  work  of  life, 
Find  dullard's  brain  so  sweetly  won 

To  such  a  merry  strife  ?" 
He  seized  his  harp  and  stole  away 

Across  the  fields  of  corn, 
The  maids  went  dancing  to  the  lay, 

And  Cupid  blew  his  horn. 

Old  earth  and  labor  flew  afar, 

The  night  came  stealing  on, 
The  bended  blue  with  many  a  star, 

Was  glittering  like  the  dawn ; 
He  lost  his  soul,  and  to  the  lyre 

He  poured  a  wondrous  song, 
His  very  harp  seemed  flamed  with  fire 

As  danced  the  merry  throng. 

"Oh  come  to  me,  my  lovely  Muse ! 

With  laurels  on  your  brow, 
A  rustic  bard  will  ne'er  refuse 

To  make  the  lover's  vow ; 
You  sought  him  where  New  Hampshire  soil 

Was  hard  as  rugged  fate, 
The  Delphic  rill  shall  never  roil, 

Thou  art  without  a  mate ! 

"Oh  come  in  beauty,  come  in  love, 

Oh  come  from  baser  earth, 
Thou  art  a  seraph  from  above, 

And  heaven  was  thy  birth ; 
You  wooed  him  from  his  thralling  work, 

Mechanic's  humble  art, 
He  stood  as  glum  as  any  Turk, 

But  now  he  gives  his  heart !" 

And  thus,  my  Holmes,  the  bard  was  born, 

While  labor  ruled  the  hour, 
The  years  went  by,  a  lovelier  morn, 

A  lovelier  land  and  bower ; 
A  lovelier  earth,  a  brighter  view, 

An  Eden  shorn  of  art, 
'The  starlights  now  were  in  the  blue, 

Tho'  world  and  poet  part ! 

With  less  of  genius  than  a  Burns, 

He  sang  the  woodland  air, 
He  sees  the  bard  ;*  the  furrow  turns, 

They  woo  him  from  the  share  ;t 

*  Burns,     f  The  Muses. 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Columbia  holds  the  laurel  wreath 

To  crown  the  god  of  song, 
And  purer  from  the  laureate  Chief,* 

To  Genius  does  belong  ! 

A  poet  o'er  a  poet's  verse, 

May  see  beyond— a  soul, 
A  mystic  maid  does  there  rehearse, 

No  passing-bell  does  toll ; 
And  so,  my  Holmes,  he  leaves  to  you, 

As  critic,  judge,  and  friend, 
Whether  the  gods  have  made  his  due> 

The  Wreath  where  laurels  blend ! 


MAY. 


I  love  you,  May,  I  love  you,  May, 

In  all  your  wealth  and  glory, 
I  love  you,  May,  I  love  you,  May, 

You  crown  the  mountains  hoary ; 
I  love  your  tune,  I  love  your  tune, 

Tour  rarest  scent  of  flowers, 
You  sing  and  cradle  baby  June 

In  Nature's  Lydian  bowers. 

You  woo  the  breezes  from  the  hill, 

The  maidens  rich  and  chary, 
The  song  from  brook  and  meadow  rill. 

While  baby  June  you  carry ; 
"And  by  low  baby,  by  low  by, 

O  June  my  rosy  darling, 
Youjhave  the  love-laugh  in  your  eye, 

The  song  of  rarest  starling!" 

And  by  low  baby,  soft  and  low, 

Is  falling  with  the  hours, 
While  little  breezes  come  and  go 

Across  the  choral  flowers ; 
My  lovely  June,  my  lovely  June ! 

My  beauty  rarest  given, 
The  death  of  May  may  jar  your  tune, 

You  cherub  fresh  from  heaven. 

*Longfellow. 


BY  SUGAE  RIVER.  257 

That  May  and  June  might  hand  in  hand 

Go  tripping  on  together, 
With  Eden  Springs,  a  flowered  land, 

The  rarest  kind  of  weather ; 
With  smile  and  sunshine,  and  the  love, 

Of  spotless  youth  and  maiden, 
Relief  to  those  not  won  above, 

To  those  too  heavy  laden. 


BY  SUGAR   RIVER. 


By  Sugar  River's  lilied  shore 

I  wandered  with  my  Sadie, 
And  starlight  rays  did  softly  pour, 

The  Luna  Queen,  my  lady ; 
Our  hearts  were  free,  and  softly  flew 

The  moments  in  the  gloaming, 
But  love  was  there,  and  bannered  blue 

A  palace  for  our  roaming. 

Oh  who  would  be  a  titled  lord 

In  formal  wealth  disporting, 
On  Sugar  River's  flowered  sod 

I'd  rather  be  a-courting ; 
No  wealth  to  keep  us  from  our  sleep, 

For  night's  the  poorman's  season,      • 
And  he  that  has  his  gold  to  keep, 

Finds  sleep  a-playing  treason. 

Our  hearts  are  beating  with  the  tide, 

For  love  is  all  our  calling, 
He's  more  to  me  than  Mammon's  bride, 

His  chains  are  never  galling ; 
So  here's  a  toast  for  love  and  life, 

May  lover  find  his  maiden, 
And  he  that's  down  amid  the  strife, 

Find  love  not  heavy  laden ! 

The  rich  are  poor,  the  poor  are  rich, 
And  love's  the  bonniest  blessing, 

I'd  rather  take  for  love  a  stitch, 
And  find  myself  confessing, 
18 


258  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Than  worship  gold,  the  friend  it  gives, 
The  nod,  and  smirk,  and  smiling, 

An  honest  man  all  gold  outlives, 
Untarnished,  undefiling. 


FAREWELL,  MY  HOMESTEAD. 


Faretheewell,  my  bonnie  homestead, 

Faretheewell  before  I  go, 
Scenes  of  beauty  and  of  duty, 

All  my  sorrow  ne'er  may  know ; 
Here  the  hope  that  had  its  morrow, 

Purest  love  that  came  so  free, 
Rosy  hours  that  knew  no  sorrow, 

Golden  ships  upon  the  sea. 

Never  future  had  a  duty, 

Never  morrow  had  a  care, 
But  the  rosy  queen  of  beauty 

Twined  her  garlands  ever  there. 
Here  the  poet  met  his  maiden, 

Loved  and  won  and  never  lost, 
And  the  hours  tho'  heavy  laden, 

Paid  him  over,  cost  for  cost. 

Castles  rose  with  hall  and  tower, 

Turret,  dome,  and  massive  roof, 
Ward  and  guarder,  knight  of  power, 

Sentinel  that  stood  aloof ; 
Hope  had  painted  like  a  Raphael, 

Broadest  meadows  stretched  away, 
And  the  sorrow  life  could  borrow, 

Faded,  faded,  day  by  day. 

Years  have  gone,  and  home  is  broken, 

Death  came  there  a  silent  guest, 
But  to  faith  a  life-long  token, 

Token  e'en  that  death  has  blest ; 
And  at  last  the  bond  that  bound  them, 

Wanders  from  his  broken  home, 
Tho'  the  memories  hovering  round  them 

Still  forbid  the  bard  to  roam. 


THE  GRIND  STONE.  L>.V.I 

But  adieu,  adieu,  my  homestead, 

Faretheewell  before  I  go, 
Blooming  flowers  from  fairy  bowers 

Teach  a  tale  of  joy  and  woe ; 
Teach  that  tho'  on  earth  forever 

Part  the  friend  and  kin  from  kin, 
Time  will  come  that  does  not  sever, 

Painting  there  "what  might  have  been." 


THE  GRIND  STONE. 


She  turned  the  stone  with  nimble  hands, 

While  he  the  axe  was  grinding, 
And  out  of  view  with  dart  he  stands, 

A  Cupid  all  unminding ; 
He  holds  the  head  against  the  stone, 

The  dullest  in  the  quiver, 
For  love  is  cold  if  left  alone, 

And  sometimes  has  a  shiver. 

The  maiden  turned,  and  turned,  and  turned, 

The  arrow  getting  sharper, 
Till  eyes  looked  back  again  that  yearned, 

And  Cupid  was  the  harper ; 
The  stone  went  round  and  round  again, 

The  hour  was  quite  forgotten, 
A  dizziness  across  the  brain, 

And  neither  sheep  from  mutton, 

Did  know  the  maid,  the  lover  youth, 

And  Love  cared  not  a  shilling ; 
The  stone  had  ground,  and  ground  in  truth 

A  love,  for  both  were  willing. 
"Now  sing,  oh  sing,  my  maiden  gay, 

A  farmer's  son,  a  daughter, 
They  groun^  the  axe,  and  ground  away, 

Till  Love  flew  in  the  water. 

"Come  on,  my  priest,  my  holy  sir, 

Th*e  world  is  less  in  number, 
For  he  has  talked  of  love  to  her, 

And  now  nor  sleep  nor  slumber ; 


2GO  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  blushing  like  the  dewy  rose, 
The  maiden  in  her  tresses, 

The  priest  stands  there  in  wliited  clothes,. 
And  he  his  love  confesses." 


BESIDE  THE  STREAM. 


I  saw  a  maiden  rich  and  rare 

Beside  the  gurgling  stream, 
Her  smile  was  sweet,  her  golden  hair 

Seemed  soft  as  fading  dream ; 
I  did  not  love,  but  yet  her  glance 

So  tender,  sweet  and  mild, 
My  very  being  did  intrance 

With  beauty  undented. 

She  seemed  to  me  the  prettiest  maid 

My  eyes  had  ever  s^en, 
And  such  the  beauty  that  arrayed, 

I  loved  her  then,  I  ween; 
Why  thus  I  loved  I  could  not  tell, 

But  something  shaped  her  fail- 
As  any  rosy  in  the  dell 

Outblushing  in  the  air. 

For  many,  many  maids,  I  trow, 

Were  fair  and  pure  as  she ; 
But  murmured  breezes  soft  and  low, 

The  flowers  upon  the  lea, 
Seemed  won  of  her,  this  fair-haired  maid, 

And  like  myself  were  led 
To  love  a  form  that  He  had  'rayed 

With  beauties  meekly  wed. 

Oh  why  was  she  the  queen  of  all, 

The  rarest  maid  1  knew  ? 
The  flower  that  twines  across  the  wall, 

Is  sweet  and  fair  to  you ; 
And  may  you  tell  the  reason  why '?  • 

Can  language  shape  the  thought '? 
'Twas  thus  I  loved  the  maiden  shy, 

'Twas  thus  my  heart  was  caught 


BENEATH  THE  HAWTHORN.  20 1 

For  love  is  like  the  stealing  leaf* 

The  lovely  budding  rose, 
He  conies  upon  you  like  a  thief, 

The  mystic  wind  that  blows ; 
For  love,  true  love  is  never  sought, 

He  comes  as  he  may  like, 
And  all  the  armors  ever  wrought 

Shall  part  when  he  may  strike. 


BENEATH  THE  HAWTHORN 


Beneath  the  hawthorn's  milkwhite  shade, 

In  even's  mellow  glooming, 
I  wooed  the  rich  and  rarest  maid 

The  day  had  left  a-blooming ; 
We  sang  of  love,  while  stars  above 

Shone  softly  pale  and  mellow, 
The  clouds  went  by  across  the  sky, 

All  pale,  and  red,  and  yellow. 

"And  such  is  love,  my  bonnie  maid, 

All  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
He  ever  came,  and  ever  stayed, 

When  Cupid  bore  the  train-bow. 
When  once  'tis  love  from  realms  above, 

From  Eden  or  Arcady, 
'Tis  death  alone  in  sQlenm  tone, 

Can  win  him  from  my  lady." 

And  there  they  sat  beneath  the  cloud, 

With  Cupid  in  the  grasses, 
And  he  the  proudest  of  the  proud, 

And  she  of  lovely  lasses ; 
To  wealth  or  fame  they  laid  no  claim, 

To  rarest  friend  or  cousin, 
For  love  was  love,  and  stars  above 

Were  shining  by  the  dozen. 

"Oh  Love,  oh  Love,  my  acrobat!" 

They  sang  and  sang  together, 
"  'Tis  but  a  tale  of  tit  for  tat, 

In  any  kind  of  weather!" 


L>r,2  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  reader  fair,  without  a  care, 
There  came  a  flowered  wedding, 

'Twas  Love  that  won  the  battle  there, 
To-day  his  light  is  shedding. 


APRIL  CAME. 


And  April  came  with  shine  and  shower 

Across  the  clouded  east, 
With  smiles  and  tears  and  skies  that  lower, 

Where  winter's  rage  had  ceased : 
You  had  no  field  of  June-wed  roses, 

The  balms  of  flowery  May, 
But  month  of  tears,  and  dearth  of  posies, 

You  kept  old  March  at  bay. 

So  March  went  out  with  storm  and  clatter, 

A-sailing  down  the  west, 
Then  smiles  and  tears,  a  little  spatter, 

And  April  stood  confest ! 
Oh  April  smiles,  and  April  showers, 

Oh  diadem  of  Spring ! 
You  came  a  child  from  fairer  bowers, 

With  music  on  the  wing. 

We  love  you  more  than  all  thefsummer, 

For  freshness  and  for  joy, 
Thou  art  the  first  and  sweetest  comer, 

Thou  love-eyed  Cupid  boy ; 
Thou  art  a  youth,  a  maid  in  tresses, 

A  love  to  weep  and  wail, 
Your  weakness  every  hour  confesses, 

It's  all  a  lover's  tale. 

But  April  born  in  tears  and  sorrow, 

You  gave  us  May  and  June, 
And  now  we  say  to  sweet  to-morrow, 

She  got  the  harp  in  tune ; 
'Twas  she  that  set  the  wheel  in  motion, 

With  softer  months  before, 
And  now  the  anthem  of  the  ocean 

Sings:  "April  evermore !" 


EVE  AGAIN  IN  PARADISE. 


"Good  morning,  all ;  a  pretty  world ! 

With  birds,  and  vines,  and  laughing  flowers, 
And  fruit,  and  trees,  the  pansy,  rose, 
The  morning-glory  e'en  did  close 

By  cottage  homes,  and  rural  bowers ! 

H. 

"And  you  are  happy,  even  I 
Did  come  from  realms  across  the  sky 
To  share  with  you  'Sweet  By  and  By ;' 
A  little  maid  you'd  not  deny, 
For  Eden's  apple  made  me  cry, 

And  filled  my  heart  with  sorrow ; 
I  know  'twas  wrong,  but  do  not  sigh, 

Your  Eden  mine  did  borrow ! 
'Twas  so  to  be,  the  Bible  said ; 

We  paint  a  bright  to-morrow, 
And  then  we  wish  that  we  were  dead, 

And  fill  our  hearts  with  sorrow. 

in. 
"I  see  your  land  with  fruit  and  tree, 

A  rill  that  sings  forever, 
And  surely  Eden's  virgin  beauty, 

Seemed  never  half  so  clever ; 

For  never,  never,  never, 
Shall  come  a  change,  a  change ; 

We  have  the  fairest,  rarest  weather, 
No  woe  that  will  estrange, 

But  mated  flowers  we  bloom  together, 
And  bloom  and  never  change. 

IV. 

"The  human  mind  is  so  arranged, 
That  e'en  the  rainbow  must  be  changed ; 
We  ever  look  for  something  new 
To  break  the  weary  spell ; 

263 


264  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  you  love  this,  and  that';  and  you  ? 
The  tale  were  hard  to  tell. 


"The  Garden  came  from  perfect  mould, 

A  perfect  hand  that  wrought, 

All  finer  fancies  caught, 
And  never  a  lovelier  on  the  wold, 

In  earth  or  sky  above, 

A  scene  of  perfect  love,  ^ 

Where  funeral  bells  were  never  tolled, 
Where  maids  were  young  and  never  old, 

And  Beauty  twined  her  flower 

In  rare  and  rustic  bower ! 


"And  this  an  after-thought  to  me, 

That  time  may  never  sever, 
The  sky  is  blue  above  the  sea, 

The  Garden's  gone  forever ! 
The  ages  rolled,  and  Time  turned  back ! 

My  Paradise !  my  Heaven ! 
I  press  again  the  sanded  track, 

My  faith  as  'We  are  Seven!' 

VII. 

"I  stand  in  Paradise  again, 

I  see  the  rills  and  flowers, 
I  see  your  world  across  the  main, 

Its  people,  halls,  and  towers ; 
It  is  a  Dream,  and  years  are  ages, 

The  world  has  moved  since  Adam  fell, 
I  see  the  centuries  on  her  pages, 

The  moving  crowds  as  billows  swell ! 
I  see  the  fruit  that  fell  like  sand, 
I  see  a  peopled,  happy  land, 
I  see  a  myriad,  merry  band, 
I  see  ambitions  great  and  grand, 
And  Adam  there,  and  I,  sad  Eve, 

The  cause  of  this  fruition  ! 

Take  not  our  poor  contrition, — 
O  why  should  we  so  wail  and  grieve ! 

VIII. 

"O  Mother  with  thy  cotted  Home! 
And  thou  the  Queen!  and  this  thy  Eome! 
And  would  that  Adam  never  fell  ? 
That  Eve  were  ever  Eden's  daughter? 


EVE  AGAIN  IN  PARADISE. 

What  lovelier  charm,  what  lovelier  spell  ? 
What  song  of  Spring  and  falling  water? 
What  joy  that  man  may  never  know  ! 

The  child-birth  pain  !  but  O  the  joy  ! 
An  angel  down  from  out  the  bow, 

A  rosy,  blooming,  perfect  boy ! 
Has  come  to  thee  !    O  love  like  this  ! 

Serenity,  and  purity ! 
O  earthly  Heaven  !    Eden  bliss  ! 
The  crown  of  all  posterity, 
A  god,  a  very  god  ! 
To  wield  the  sceptered  rod, 
His  throne  is  all  the  earth, 

And  Eve  and  Adam  fallen ; 
'Twere  they  that  gave  him  birth: — 

But  column  after  column, 
E'en  Death  shall  raze ;  but  Hope  is  there, 

Her  raiments  pure  and  spotless  white. 
The  child  is  dead  !  but  faultless  fair, 

An  angel-boy  across  the  night ! 
And  yet  a  holy,  holier  love  ! 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  grass  is  green, 
E'en  death  has  bound  with  bonds  of  love, 
And  opes  to  earth  a  brighter  scene  ! 


"The  world  is  happy,  happier  now, 

E'en  death  has  made  the  heart  to  linger 
About  the  Great  White  Throne  on  high, 

And  she  is  touched  by  saintly  finger, 
And  he  has  dropped  his  coarser  phrase, 

His  voice  is  soft  and  tender, 
The  reverent  voice  is  raised  in  praise, 

The  heavenly  powers  attend  her ! 


"And  ye  that  know  the  glad  fruition, 
Have  loved  and  won  and  never  lost, 
And  Eden  yet  your  whole  ambition  ? — 
A  peopled  world  shall  be  the  cost ! 
This  loving,  wooing,  winning, 
Has  come  of  Adam's  sinning ; 
The  apple  fell  that  you  might  be : 

You  love  the  birds  and  flowers, 
And  time  shall  take  them  all  from  thee 

And  dark  the  rosy  hours, 
If  Eden  turned  to  Eden  gone  ! 
But,  hark !  the  poorest,  lowliest  sinner : 


260  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

'And  e'en  my  work  with  shackles  on, 
Makes  me  from  Adam's  fall  the  winner  !' 


"The  Dream  is  gone  !    I'm  Eve  no  longer  ! 

The  world,  the  great  big  world  is  moving  on  ! 
The  Eves  of  Eden  now  are  stronger, 

'Twas  out  of  utter  darkness  came  the  dawn  ! 
And  better  far  that  so  it  is, 

For  Eve  and  Adam  sinning, 
Brought  out  of  darkness  into  light, 

A  great  World's  first  beginning  !" 


BY-BY,   MAY. 


Oh  by-by,  May,  oh  by,  oh  by, 

I  hate  to  see  you  go, 
That  such  a  lovely  month  should  die 

With  roses  all  in  blow ! 
But  we  beside  the  cradle  stood, 

And  heard  your  cooing  tones, 
It  seems  a  woe  from  out  the  blood, 

A  chill  from  colder  zones. 

We  bind  your  brow  with  roses  rare, 

The  rarest  rose  of  June, 
And  crown  you  fairest  of  the  fair, 

Tho'  death  has  jarred  the  tune ; 
But  by  the  cradle,  "by  low  by," 

We  sang  your  early  hours, 
And  now  we  see  you  softly  die 

A  death  among  the  flowers. 

We  load  your  hearse  with  rose  and  thyme, 

We  breathe  our  softest  prayer, 
We  sing  our  little  country  rhyme 

In  half  angelic  air ; 
You  gave  us  May  flowers  rich  and  rare, 

The  Rose's  hope  in  June, 
But  now  the  mourners  place  you  where 

The  roses  blush  and  bloom. 


DE  DO,  JUNE.  2C7 


So,  by  low  by,  thy  sounder  sleep 

Shall  need  no  carol  song, 
The  stately  calla  lilies  weep, 

The  brook  that  trips  along  ; 
The  May-maids  cherish  all  your  worth, 

The  May-lads  join  the  praise, 
They  feel  that  now  a  happier  birth 

Has  crowned  you  May  of  Mays  ! 


HOW  DE   DO,  JUNE. 


Oh  how  de  do,  my  blooming  June, 

With  leaf  upon  the  tree, 
Old  Nature  harps  a  merry  tune, 

And  I  a  song  to  thee ; 
A  year  has  gone  since  you  were  here 

In  garlands  of  the  spring, 
And  while  the  leaf  and  corn  appear, 

We  strike  the  harp  and  sing. 

"Oh  June,  oh  June,  the  roses  now 

Are  blushing  in  the  field, 
The  god  of  flowers  makes  a  bow, 

And  marriage  bells  have  pealed ; 
We  thrum  the  lyre,  and  woo  the  lute, 

We  dance,  and  sing,  and  play, 
And  gaudy  June  is  blushing  mute, 

Like  Eden  in  her  day. 

"Oh  come  the  brides-maids  from  the  halls 

To  join  the  choral  song ! 
'Tis  June  may  have  her  dance  and  balls, 

The  loveliest  of  the  throng ! 
The  May  may  give  us  roses  rare, 

Unchilled  by  winter  snows, 
But  June  shall  heap  abundance  where 

The  May-rose  seldom  blows. 

"So  June  our  tune,  with  trump  arid  horn, 

The  timbrel,  lute,  and  lyre, 
For  Nature  gives  the  perfect  morn, 

The  youth  his  love  and  fire ; 


268  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  maid  her  hue  of  beauty's  bloom, 
The  child  his  feat  of  arias, 

While  nature  all  the  robes  assume 
Of  brides-maids  in  their  charms." 


DRIVING  THE  COWS. 


Meadows  stretched  beneath  the  eye, 
Even  laughing  in  the  sky, 
Beauty  spread  effulgence  round, 
Flower  and  weed  bedecked  the  ground, 
Thousand  joys  came  there  to  view, 
Earth  was  vying  with  the  blue, 
Scenes  of  beauty  and  of  love 
Lavish  fell  from  realms  above, 
Cows  were  lowing  by  the  stream 
Where  the  flower  and  lily  dream, 
And  the  twilight  shades  that  fell 
Seemed  to  wrap  in  magic  spell, 
And  the  maiden  barefoot  there, 
Rosy  smiles  and  golden  hair, 
Knew  no  love  to  woo  her  breast, 
Tho'  the  tale  were  there  confest 
That  the  god  of  love  might  come, 
Banded  bees  'mid  flowerets  hum, 
Bird  and  brooklet  chime  in  song, 
Yet  my  Hitty  find  no  wrong. 
"Whay,  old  Madge,  the  even's  falling, 
Bird  to  bird  is  sweetly  calling ; 
Whay,  old  Bess,  my  meek-eyed  heifer, 
Songs  are  sung  of  far  Gleneffer, 
Scotland  comes  with  blooming  heather, 
Love  and  Burns  in  stormy  weather. 
What  is  loving,  wooing,  winning  ? 
Every  tale  must  have  beginning—" 
"Pretty  maiden,  let  me  tell  you!" 
Came  a  stranger,  "Love  will  sell  you, 
He  will  leave  his  pretty  sheelirig, 
Crown  the  lover  softly  kneeling, 
And  the  night  shall  be  of  dreaming, 
Love  the  victor  mildly  beaming." 
"Whay,  old  Matty,— yes,  sir  stranger, 
Love  is  e'er  a  gaudy  ranger," 


DRIVING  THE  CO  WS.  2G9 

And  her  feet  tripped  thro'  the  grasses. 

"Love  may  come,  but  never  passes," 

And  he  felt  a  strange  emotion, 

Thoughts  were  heaving  like  the  ocean. 

"Maiden  fair,  pray  let  me  tell  you, 

Stranger  comes  that  may  repel  you, 

Yet  my  heart  is  wrapt  in  sorrow, 

Surely  Hope  should  crown  the  morrow. 

I  am  going  where  a  maiden 

Never  love  had  sorrow  laden, 

Hitty,  Hitty  Small,  I  knew  her, 

Yet  my  heart  could  ne'er  construe  her. 

We  were  young,  but  Robert  Granger 

Thro'  the  world  became  a  ranger — " 

"O !"  and  faint,  and  even  fainter 

(Stars  above  shall  come  and  paint  her), 

Grew  the  "Whay,  Madge !"    She  was  trembling. 

Truest  love  is  ne'er  dissembling. 

"Oh  my  Robert,  years  have  wandered, 

All  my  early  beauty  squandered 

Since  you  left  me  for  the  beauty 

Crowning  future  scenes  of  duty." 

"But  we  meet,  my  little  farmer, 

Maids  have  gone,  but  you  the  charmer." 

And  the  "Whay,  Madge"  to  the  cattle, 

Sounded  faint  as  drum  to  battle 

When  the  din,  and  strife,  and  plunder, 

Cannon  pealed  their  vollied  thunder, 

Jarred  upon  the  startled  hearing, 

And  the  spear  on  spear  appearing, 

Seemed  to  drown  and  half  bewilder, 

Seemed  to  drown  and  half  bewilder, 

And  the  cattle  ate  the  grasses, 

Cropped  the  weed  among  the  rashes, 

Even  fell  upon  the  bramble, 

Light  and  shade  did  vying  gamble, 

Up  the  trees  the  squirrels  scramble, 

'Neath  the  starlight  lovers  ramble, 

And  the  farmer  heard  the  lowing 

Far  across  the  clovered  mowing, 

And  he  wondered  what  detained  her, 

What  the  power  that  so  restrained  her, 

Saw  the  horns  above  the  railing, 

But  the  "Whay,  Bess!"  soft  assailing, 

Died  among  the  gathering  shadows, 

Died  across  the  clovered  meadows ; 

Then  a  fear  came  softly  stealing,  .   . 

And  as  quickly  from  the  ceiling 


270  THE  LADY  OF  DAHDALE. 

As  his  trembling  hands  could  take  it, 

Took  his  hat,  while  fear  did  make  it 

Such  a  task  he  left  it  hanging, 

Gate,  and  hall-door,  barn-door  banging ; 

And,  my  reader,  pretty  Hitty 

With  the  ranger  from  the  city, 

Fell  upon  the  wildered  farmer. 

"Pa,  I'm  coming!" — "Do  not  harm  her — ' 

"Pa,  'tis  only  Robert  Granger, 

Not  a  wayward,  wandering  stranger !" 

And,  my  fair-haired  little  reader, 

Gentlest  love  did  softly  lead  her ; 

And  the  farmer,  friend  and  daughter, 

Drove  the  cows  across  the  water, 

And  I  tell  you  since  that  stranger, 

Cow-lane  wooing  Robert  Granger, 

Came  across  the  bended  grasses, 

Wound  the  cows  adown  the  passes. 

Ne'er  delayed  by  love  or  lasses 


TO  CHARLESTOWN. 


Oh  do  not  weep,  my  bonnie  town, 

That  native  bard  should  roam, 
He  went  where  Labor  reared  his  front, 

Tho'  far  away  from  home  ! 
The  god  of  wealth  had  passed  him  by, 

But  hunger  never  strayed, 
And  so  the  muses  waned  and  drooped, 

They  knelt  and  sometimes  prayed. 

To  Brooklyn  far  across  the  farms, 

He  took  his  humble  way, 
And  war  came  on,  the  drum  was  loud, 

Secession  wild  in  sway; 
A  youth  in  teens  he  felt  no  dread 

That  made  the  Nation  weep, 
His  little  boyish  heart  was  warm, 

And  soft  as  gentle  sleep. 

The  North  and  South  were  up  in  arms, 
And  men  were  running  wild, 

And  blood,  red  blood  was  flowing  there, 
Columbia  wept  a  child. 


TO  CLAREMONT.  'J71 

"My  Thirteen  States  the  crown  of  this, 

Where  kin  are  stabbing  kin '? 
O  God !  that  this  should  ever  be, 

With  woe,  and  war,  and  din!" 

But  Charlestown  with  thy  stately  homes, 

Thy  river  grand  and  wide, 
My  native  town !  the  war  at  last 

Was  o'er  where  heroes  died ; 
And  now  the  harp  we  strike  again, 

With  peace  and  tales  of  love, 
The  Nation  moves  a  mightier  host 

O'er  fields  where  warriors  strove. 


TO  CLAREMONT, 


Oh  Claremont  unknown  as  yet 

Outside  thy  bounding  line, 
'Twas  here  the  muse  and  poet  met 

As  strangers  on  the  Tyne ; 
He  bathed  in  Sugar  River's  stream, 

And  plucked  the  lily  bright, 
"And  love  and  life  seemed  all  a  dream," 

The  schoolhouse  red  and  white. 

He  wandered  oft  the  winding  way, 

Where  weed,  and  flower,  and  rose, 
Made  beauty  all  the  livelong  day, 

The  even  in  its  close ; 
He  bound  his  harp  with  rustic  verse, 

And  sang  old  Cupid's  tune, 
O  why  should  muses  so  rehearse, 

He  found  in  rosy  June. 

'Twas  all  the  beauty  in  the  heart 

The  lovely  month  had  shown, 
And  Nature's  poet  seemed  a  part, 

And  wandered  not  alone ; 
'Twas  Nature  gave  her  voice  thro'  him, 

And  tuned  the  magic  lyre, 
She  gave  him  every  freak  and  whim, 

And  crowned  his  harp  with  fire. 


272  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

So  now  adieu  till  fame  shall  crown 

Thy  mountains,  hills  and  peaks, 
And  laurel  you  an  Ayrshire  town 

Where  rustic  poet  speaks ; 
The  mills  that  frown  above  thy  stream, 

May  woo  the  lovely  Muse, 
But  where  old  Labor  has  no  dream, 

Will  poet's  love  refuse  ? 


TO  BROOKLYN. 


City  of  Churches,  home  of  wealth! 

A  butcher  boy  may  claim, 
That  hand  in  hand  with  rosy  health, 

He  walked  unknown  of  fame, 
Among  thy  houses  high  and  grand, 

With  basket  on  his  arm, 
The  happiest  king  of  any  land, 

Away  from  Nature's  charm. 

He  saw  the  Greeleys,  Beechers  pass, 

And  wondered  what  they  were, 
But  yet  a  difference  from  the  mass, 

His  very  blood  did  stir ; 
And  then  a  something  shapeless  then, 

Seemed  far  across  the  years, 
He  rose  from  marts  and  scenes  of  men, 

And  bowed  in  nameless  tears. 

The  little  butcher  boy,  I  trow, 

Was  touched  by  saintly  hand, 
And  all  his  future  like  a  bow 

Was  spread  across  the  land ! 
The  basket  on  his  calloused  arm 

Was  crowned  with  rarest  flowers ; 
His  blood  was  rushing  as  alarm 

Is  sounded  from  the  towers. 

A  glimpse  of  future  yet  unborn, 

A  ray  from  falling  time, 
A  glimmer  from  a  lovelier  dawn, 

A  harp  in  perfect  chime  ! 


<T 


A    LITTLE  EDEN. 


A  LITTLE  EDEN.  273 

And  who  shall  say  from  Wisdom's  height, 

The  future  is  not  won, 
By  many  a  youth  in  darkest  night, 

Ere  glows  the  crowning  sun  ! 


A  LITTLE  EDEN/ 
i. 

See  this  little  Eden 

With  a  vista  reaching  thro' ; 
All  embowered  in  flowers, 

Just  a  place  for  me  and  you. 

ii. 
Here  we'll  wander  softly 

LinkM  gently  hand  in  hand ; 
Like  a  ravished  poet 

With  his  lady  of  the  land. 

in. 
With  his  muse,  a  fairy, 

In  a  rare  and  fairy  scene ; 
With  the  trees  above  us, 

And  the  lovely  flowers  between. 

IV. 

Softly  thro'  the  vista 

We  can  see  the  lighted  sky  ; 
And  a  line  of  water 

Looking  up  with  glassy  eye. 

v. 
Flowers  are  in  our  pathway, 

And  the  flowers  are  on  the  ground; 
With  their  myriad  beauties 

Making  Eden  all  around. 

VI. 

Here  the  muse  and  poet 
Find  their  Paradise  on  earth ; 

And  a  sweet  reflection 
Of  that  higher,  holier  birth. 

VII. 

For  such  scenes  are  peaceful, 
And  a  calmness  teach  the  heart; 

Making  up  in  beauty 
What  they  lack  in  finished  art. 

VIII. 

So  a  touch  of  nature 

Wins  where  art  alone  may  fail ; 
Give  me  outdoor  flowers 

Blooming  native  in  the  vale. 
19 


SUMMER'S  HERE. 


The  Summer's  here,  my  lovely  maid, 
With  leaf  and  vine  and  roses  'rayed, 
The  blooming  tree  and  blushing  wold, 
Arid  many  a  beauty  fold  on  fold, 
The  lily,  pansy,  laughing  flower, 
A-many  a  gem  in  Nature's  bower, 
The  rosy  red  and  violet  blue, 
All  fresh  in  Nature's  morning  dew, 
A  thousand  gems  a  verse  might  name, 
And  all  a  pure  and  virgin  claim, 
The  heart  may  paint  the  scenes  as  fair, 
With  myriad  beauties  glowing  there ; 
But  come  with  me  and  cross  the  field, 
And  many  a  haunt  and  nook  shall  yield 
A  wild-flower  twined  by  Nature's  hand, 
The  loveliest  rose  in  all  the  land, 
The  prettiest  dell,  the  sweetest  brook, 
The  loveliest  thing  in  any  book, 
The  fay  and  fairy,  bird  and  song, 
Sweet  Summer's  lovely  banquet  throng, 
The  flowered  knoll,  the  lilied  hill, 
The  babbling  brook,  the  laughing  rill, 
The  feathered  throng  in  various  tune, 
The  thousand  joys  that  come  of  June, 
The  bashful  youth,  the  blushing  maid, 
The  moonlight  walk  in  tangled  shade, 
The  tittering  school-boy  barefoot  brown, 
The  greatest  tease  in  all  the  town, 
The  little  schoolmarm  taught  to  rule 
The  worst  of  all,  a  country  school, 
The  cow-boy  whistling  to  the  kine, 
While  Cupid  says :  "The  maid  is  mine  !" 
A  chaos  view  when  seen  afar, 
But  Love  shall  play  the  soft  guitar, 
And  all  the  beauties  mingled  there, 
Shine  sweetly  bright  and  softly  fair, 
274 


THE  .S7-;  1 1 7  Xtt  GIRL.  275 

And  then  the  harp  and  lute  shall  sound, 
With  blushing  roses  twined  around, 
And  Summer  voices  pure  and  sweet, 
Shall  sing  in  Nature's  wild  retreat : 

SONG. 
"Oh  winter,  winter,  winter  cold, 

Oh  winter  across  the  sea, 
Your  day  is  by,  your  death  is  tolled, 

You're  dead  as  dead  can  be ; 
You  draped  the  earth  in  spotless  white, 

You  shut  the  brook  and  stream, 
But  came  the  sable  god  of  night, 

And  now  you're  all  a  dream! 
The  boisterous  March  it  blew,  and  blew, 

And  won  the  crown  at  eve ; 
Bnt  when  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew, 

His  mourners  did  bereave ; 
Then  April  came  with  shine  and  shower, 

More  mildness  in  her  look, 
And  virgin  Spring  from  many  a  bower, 

By  meadow,  field,  and  brook; 
Then  May  came  in  from  warmer  climes, 

And  Nature  seemed  to  sing, 
The  May-flowers  grew,  and  merry  rhymes 

From  birds  upon  the  wing ; 
At  last  was  June,  my  rosy  June ! 

The  queen-maid  of  the  throng, 
And  harp  and  timbrel  all  in  tune 

Did  join  the  choral  song ; 
And  Summer's  here,  the  Summer's  here, 

From  soft  Idalian  bowers, 
The  birds  and  birds  as  they  appear, 

Soft  sing  it  to  the  hours ; 
Oh  Summer's  come,  oh  Summer's  come, 

She's  come,  she's  come,  she's  come! 
We  love  to  hear  her  merry  note, 

The  busy  bees  that  hum ; 
We  crown  her  now  the  queen  of  all, 

The  queen  of  love  and  joy, 
She  reigns  in  Nature's  banquet-hall 

Spring's  lovely  L'envoy ! 


THE  SEWING  GIRL. 

The  poor  have  loved  the  poor  since  Hood 
First  sang  his  noble  song, 


276  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  e'en  the  rich  have  ta'en  a  part 
As  He  who  loved  them  long, 

And  side  by  side,  from  door  to  door, 
With  loving  hearts  and  pure, 

Have  gone  in  peace  and  holiest  love 
When  only  love  could  lure. 

So,  ill-clad  maid,  in  lowly  walks, 

Your  lot  in  life  is  hard, 
But  she  who  does  her  duty  well 

At  last  is  crowned  and  starred ! 
Your  heart  may  faint,  your  eye  grow  dim, 

As  one  by  one  depart 
The  hopes  that  e'en  in  holiest  guise 

Can  come  to  breaking  heart. 

But  hope  e'en  then,  for  He  who  reigns 

Above  the  starry  sky, 
Can  see  a  pure  and  perfect  soul 

Tho'  all  the^world  deny  ; 
All  honor,  fame,  and  high  renown, 

That  are  alone  of  earth, 
Can  never,  sure,  make  up  the  loss 

Of  pure  and  modest  worth. 

All  wealth  and  fame  of  Grecian  years, 

E'en  Rome  in  grander  pride, 
Can  never  make  a  perfect  maid 

If  virtue  be  denied ; 
It  is  not  gold,  nor  wealth,  nor  gems, 

That  make  a  perfect  heart, 
But  something  pure  that  is  within 

And  never  may  depart. 

The  tears  may  fall,  but  from  the  soul 

The  gentle  prayer  should  rise : 
"I  thank  Thee,  Father!  that  my  state 

Is  holy  in  Thine  eyes." 
You  have  no  time  for  fashion's  gods 

To  wheedle  and  deceive, 
And  she  whose  heart  is  in  her  work 

May  never,  sure,  bereave. 

So  do  your  duty,  stitch  and  sew, 

If  such  the  fates  decree, 
And  when  the  last,  last  tear  is  shed, 

And  all  is  o'er  to  thee, 


TO   THE  CHILDREN.  277 

May  never  Bible  preach  again 

To  countless  thousands  more, 
If  He  who  made  the  gilded  bow 

Crowns  not  on  the  other  shore  ! 


TO  THE  CHILDREN- 


Dear  children,  may  I  venture  where 

Your  poet  father  reigned, 
The  Cambridge  bard  who  sang  your  songs 

In  language  unconstrained? 
Who  bent  with  laurels  on  his  brow 

To  hear  your  boyish  tale, 
Your  girlish  story  bubbling  up 

Like  fountains  in  the  vale? 

No  other  bard  can  be  to  you 

A  universal  friend, 
The  god  of  nature  made  him  love 

His  children  to  the  end ; 
You  cross  my  walks  and  come  to  me 

As  welcome  as  the  flowers, 
But  tho'  I  loved  you  e'en  as  true, 

I  lack  his  modest  powers. 

But  come,  my  children,  girls  and  boys, 

And  try  to  find  my  love 
The  semblance  of  the  wealth  he  bore 

Unsullied  from,  above ; 
Your  little  tender  hearts  shall  feel 

A  hope  as  big  as  years, 
And  tho'  the  flowers  are  o'er  his  grave, 

Oh  come,  tho'  come  in  tears ! 

'Tis  I  will  dry  the  tear-wet  eye 

So  pleading  turned  on  me, 
And  teach  the  little  sorrowing  heart 

That  solemn  as  the  sea 
The  cares  may  come,  the  woes,  the  strife, 

Yet  bends  a  face  above 
That  sees  in  storm,  in  dark,  and  hail, 

With  more  than  earthly  love. 


278  THE  LAJ)  Y  OF  DA  RDA LE. 

Your  little  tender  hearts  shall  know, 

As  years  go  rolling  by, 
That  cares  shall  come,  and  go,  and  come. 

Like  clouds  across  the  sky, 
That  he  is  crowned  who  wins  the  fight, 

A  iid  stands  a  nobler  man, 
Than  he  who  fails  to  do  his  part, 

And  faints  before  the  van. 

We  may  not  say  how  much  he  did 

To  rear  in  childhood's  breast 
A  higher  purpose  than  of  life 

With  peace,  and  joy,  and  rest ; 
And  so,  my  children,  tho'  no  more 

His  gentle  life  is  ours, 
We  yet  may  find  his  presence  where 

Unsullied  bloom  the  flowers  ! 

In  everything  that  teaches  love, 

And  hope,  and  modest  worth, 
We  still  may  find  his  form  a  part, 

A  flower  'mid  flowers  of  earth ; 
His  life  was  calm  as  volumed  stream 

That  steals  thro'  quiet  vales, 
A  great  white  ship  upon  its  breast, 

With  mast  and  spotless  sails. 

So,  children,  come,  I  may  not  be 

Such  loving  friend  to  you, 
But  thousand  ships  may  cross  the  sea 

Beneath  the  cloudless  blue ; 
But  all  their  wealth  of  gem  and  gold 

Is  not  the  wealth  of  love 
I  bear  you  all,  and  may  you  meet 

In  brighter  realms  above ! 


MINNIE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

"To-morro\v  is  my  eighth  birthday  !" 

And  such  a  pretty  maid 
As  ever  laughing  girlhood  saw, 

With  roses  softly  'rayed, 
Looked  out  a  flower  among  the  flowers^ 

Across  the  garden  walk, 
Where  pansy,  rose,  and  tangled  weed, 

The  stately  hollyhock. 


MINNIE' S  niR TIID A  Y.  270 

"When  I  was  seven,  mother  said, 

A  year  would  soon  be  past, 
And  she  would  have  a  great  big  girl, 

A  .ureat  big  girl  at  last ! 
A  year  has  gone,  and  friends  have  gone, 

And  mother's  older  arown, 
Sweet  Lena  lies  beneath  the  flowers 

That  twine  the  gray  head-stone. 

"Dear  brother  fell  with  falling  flowers, 

And  autumn's  golden  leaf, 
And  all  the  birds  from  hill  and  dale 

Seemed  sharers  of  our  grief ; 
But  now  the  world  is  sweet  as  yore, 

And  where  we  shed  our  tears, 
We  wander  'mid  the  birds  and  flowers, 

Tho'  there  his  mound  appears. 

"It  seems  so  strange  that  death  should  come 

And  crop  the  fairest  flowers, 
And  then  the  heart  should  be  again 

A  bird  among  the  bowers. 
When  brother  died,  it  seemed  the  world 

Would  never  more  be  gay, 
And  here  1  am  a  happy  girl 

Longing  my  eighth  birthday !" 

And  even  fell,  and  night  came  on, 

But  when  the  morn  arose, 
Sweet  Minnie  found  the  laughing  world 

Outblushing  like  the  rose ; 
And  maidens  came,  and  boyhood  there 

Stood  out  with  big,  big  eyes, 
And  all  the  pretty  presents  shone 

Like  gods  beneath  the  skies. 

"I'm  eight  to-day !"  and  bigger  eyes 

Than  any  maiden's  there, 
Sparkled  and  laughed  in  joyous  glee, 

In  half  angelic  air ; 
And  father,  mother  beamed  above 

The  little  merry  band, 
And  smiled  their  soft  parental  love 

As  touched  by  saintly  hand. 

My  little  maids  have  birthdays  had, 
My  little  boy-kings,  too. 


280  THE  LADY  OF  UARDALE. 

But  be  ye  sure,  my  pretty  ones, 

I  may  not  tell  to  you, 
Bow  glad  she  was,  how  sweet  she  smiled, 

And  how  the  big,  big  world 
Seemed  never  half  so  great  to  her 
*  As  when  this  morn  unfurled ! 


HAL  AND  DORA. 


I  see  two  cradles  far  apart, 

Two  mothers  God  has  made, 
And  never  Art  in  all  its  art 

Such  beauty  has  displayed; 
Unknown  of  either  grew  the  boy, 

The  baby  maiden,  too, 
Two  households  far  apart  with  joy, 

Made  castles  in  the  blue. 

A  sea  divided  each  from  each, 

The  waves  had  dashed  between, 
But  sometimes  shells  upon  the  beach 

Have  come  from  distant  scene. 
The  "bye  low  baby"  soft  and  low, 

The  "bye  low  baby"  sweet, 
With  all  the  listening  hours  did  go 

As  waves  that  softly  meet. 

And  little  Dora  grew  and  grew, 

And  Hal  did  get  the  trick, 
And  years  went  by  beneath  the  blue, 

And  Dora's  ma  fell  sick ; 
She  died  when  Dora  numbered  four, 

And  out  of  great  wide  eyes, 
She  saw  the  long  dark  coffin  lower 

Beneath  the  pallid  skies. 

And  this  the  first  of  woe  to  her; 

But  Hal  across  the  sea 
Was  making  all  outdoors  aver, — 

"He's  merry  as  can  be !" 
And  little  Dora  with  the  tears 

Upon  her  blue,  blue  eyes, 
Felt  sorrow  then  as  big  as  years, 

Felt  sad  beneath  the  skies. 


UAL  AND  UOEA.  281 

And  Harry's  father,  big  with  gold : 

"My  boy,  the  time  will  come 
When  some  fair  maid  of  classic  mold 

Will  lure  you  from  your  home ; 
But  mark,  my  boy,  you'll  marry  high, 

You'll  wed  a  cultured  maid, 
The  shuttle  back  and  forth  will  fly 

And  weave  a  tangled  braid." 

And  picking  from  the  marble  stand 

A  paper  from  the  "States," 
The  page  on  page  he  thoughtless  scanned, 

And  circumstance  or  fates, 
He  read  of  Dora's  mother's  death, 

He  read  and  knew  it  not, 
But  empires  at  an  empty  breath 

Have  fallen  from  their  lot. 

And  time  flew  on  and  numbered  years, 

Sweet  Dora  never  knew 
A  rich  maid's  lot-;  and  sometimes  tears 

Would  brim  her  eyes  of  blue ; 
But  Hal,  this  rollicking  rich  man's  son, 

Had  everything  he  chose, 
And  never  any  morn  begun 

That  bloomed  not  like  the  rose. 

And  Master  Hal  was  quite  a  man, 

And  Dora  "sweet  sixteen," 
And  then  the  ocean  breeze  did  fan, 

And  Hal  with  laughing  mien, 
Was  standing  there  in  youthhood's  wealth, 

"The  courted  and  caressed," 
But  came  a  time  when  love  by  stealth 

His  tremulous  heart  possessed. 

The  ocean  steamer  crossed  the  wave, 

And  by  a  hap  or  chance, 
My  Dora  maid  where  beauty  'rayed, 

Met  Hal ;  and  glance  for  glance 
They  gave  as  strangers  sometimes  do 

When  love  is  born  at  sight ; 
And  may  I  tell  the  marriage  bell 

Seemed  ringing  all  its  might ! 

She  was  no  classic  maid,  I  trow, 
But  like  an  artless  flower 


282  THE  LADY  OF  DA IU) ALE. 

Sweet  Dora  maid  did  bloom  and  blow 

The  rarest  in  the  bower  ; 
And  Hal,  poor  Hal,  grew  worse  and  worse, 

And  Love  atilt  stood  by ; 
I  may  not  say  within  the  verse 

He  knew,  he  knew  he'd  die. 

But  so  he  did,  and  parent  there 

Looked  on  with  eye  askew, 
And  when  he  saw  the  pretty  pair, — 

"The  boy's  a  fool  for  true  ! 
But  spite  of  all,"  the  father  sighed, 

"The  world  is  much  the  same." 
He  smiled.    "It  cannot  be  denied 

Gold's  weak  when  Love  may  claim!" 

And  pretty  maids,  tho'  poor  you  are, 

And  come  of  humble  birth, 
The  god  of  Love,  a  shining  star, 

May  make  you  queens  of  earth ; 
For  modest  worth  than  gaudy  gold, 

Is  greater  after  all, 
The  Caesars  in  their  chariots  rolled, 

But  Csesars  had  their  fall ! 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 


That  hillside  cot  again  I  see, 

Sweet  thoughts  like  roses  round  it  twine ; 
My  mother  there  on  bended  knee 

Clasped  holy  book  now  prized  as  mine. 
Her  reverent  eyes  were  raised  above; 

Like  saint,  she  breathed  the  evening  prayer, 
One  gentle  hand  in  tenderest  love 

Laid  on  her  darling's  golden  hair. 

Oh  for  that  touch  upon  my  brow 

As  when  I  knelt  beside  her  chair! 
Would  that  this  heart  were  guileless  now! 

I'd  fondly  lisp  that  simple  prayer. 
Her  precious  book  I  hold  to-night  : 

Home's  pictured  wall  again  I  view, 
All  lit  by  Memory's  mellowed  light, — 

And  broken  links  of  love  renew. 


A  POEM  ON  THE  ABOVE.  2fl 

Bright  faces  by  the  fireside  glow, 

The  stainless  cloth  o'er  table  spread; 
With  trembling  accents,  mild  and  low, 

The  word  of  God  is  slowly  read ; 
Then  earnest  plea  and  sweet  'good-night,'— 

All  linger  now  within  my  ear, 
As  praise  of  coral  depths  so  bright 

In  echoing,  pearly  shell  we  hear. 

I  slip  the  clasp.    Lo!  promise  rare 

Within  the  volume  meets  my  eye  : 
And,  see !  her  book-mark  lying  there ! 

It  brings  her  sainted  presence  nigh. 
O  golden  words!  O  book  divine! 

Pen  cannot  tell  how  grand  thou  art; 
And  wholly  mine, — yea,  wholly  thine — 

Guide,  balm  and  strength  to  fainting  heart. 

—George  Bancroft  Grijfilh. 


A  POEM  ON  THE  ABOVE. 


The  time  will  come,  my  honored  friend, 

When  fame  will  crown  the  bard, 
But  he  who'd  win  the  laurel  wreath 

By  earth's  fair  muses  starred, 
Must  have  the  taste  from  cradle  days, 

And  feel  there's  naught  on  earth 
To  match  this  queen  of  all  the  arts 

Since  poets  found  their  birth. 

His  songs  must  come  right  from  the  heart 

As  natural  as  the  spring 
That  finds  its  birth  on  mountain  sides, 

And  unaffected  sing ; 
The  scholar's  art  may  shape  a  rule 

To  prune  the  natural  vine, 
But  never  can  it  make  the  verse 

Where  native  beauties  twine. 

My  Robert  Burns  whom  I  admire 

Above  the  laureled  throng. 
Found  music  tuned  his  voiced  lyre, 

And  shaped  the  matchless  song. 
When  Nature  crowns  her  offspring  bard, 

His  ear  in  perfect  tune, 


284  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

Makes  music  where  the  chords  have  jarred, 
And  winter  blooms  in  June. 

Oh,  Griffith  !  may  I  say  your  song 

Upon  the  sacred  Book 
To  me  does  flow  as  sweet  along 

As  Nature's  babbling  brook  ; 
It  is  a  theme  that  touches  all, 

My  mother's  Bible  old, 
And  like  the  flower  upon  the  wall, 

It  twines  with  vines  of  gold ! 


TWO  LETTERS  FROM  O.  W.  HOLMES. 

Oh,  pretty  letters,  may  I  tell 

How  dear  you  are  to  me, 
Or  would  it  be  a  wrongful  act 

To  say  such  things  of  thee  ? 
I'm  sure  I  love  you  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  penned  your  lines, 
For  every  hour  is  growing  dear 

As  rich  Canary  wines. 

The  years  may  come  when  other  bards 

Shall  need  the  inspiring  hand, 
But,  Beverly  Farms,  thy  soul  has  gone 

O'er  oceans  vast  and  grand  ! 
For  thro'  thy  gates  his  loved  form 

Has  gone  as  he  who  goes 
To  seek  that  calmer,  holier  rest, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  woes. 

So,  pretty  letters,  would  it  be 

A  sin  to  say  you're  mine, 
And  that  my  love  is  from  the  heart 

Where  love's  best  offsprings  shine  ? 
I  may  not  tell  the  great  big  world 

How  much  you've  been  to  me, 
But  surely,  surely  I  may  say, 

My  love  is  love  to  thee. 

I  may  not  say  how  much  you  are 

That  seem  so  white  and  small ; 
But  wedless  maid  he  gave  the  flower 

That  twined  the  garden  wall, 


A  BRIDE  TO-NIGHT.  286 

And  is  the  rose  not  sweet  to  you, 

The  rarest  rosy  known, 
And  such  the  letters  he  has  penned, 

Tho'  sweet  to  me  alone. 

As  like  to  like  and  love  to  love, 

My  muse  has  made  you  shine, 
And  tho'  the  world  should  crown  for  aye, 

You're  mine,  forever  mine !  . 

And  when  the  lips  that  gave  you  birth 

Shall  kiss  the  Muse  at  last, 
The  stars,  the  sky,  the  weeping  earth, 

The  fadeless  flower  will  cast ! 


A  BRIDE  TO-NIGHT. 


"And  I  shall  be  a  bride  to-night 

With  roses  in  my  hair, 
And  all  the  pretty  maids  around 

Will  crown  me  faultless  fair ; 
And  I  shall  be  the  happiest  bride 

The  world  has  ever  seen, 
And  when  the  merry  minstrels  come, 

The  gods  will  crown  me  queen ! 

"A  year  has  gone  as  ever  goes 

A  year  to  waiting  love, 
But  now  the  rosy  e'en  has  come, 

With  milder  skies  above ; 
A  nd  all  the  doubt,  and  fear,  and  hope, 

Will  be  of  other  hours, 
A  nd  merry  maids  upon  the  wold 

Will  fling  the  rarest  flowers." 

MINSTRELS  SING. 

"He  comes !  he  comes  on  dappled  steed, 

He  comes  with  hope  elate, 
And  never  came  to  bride  before 

A  bridegroom  was  his  mate ! 
Oh  sing,  oh  sing,  oh  sing,  oh  sing, 

Oh  sing,  oh  sing  for  aye, 
The  truest  lover  ever  loved 

Is  speeding  on  his  way. 


286  THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

"The  rosy  morn,  the  rosy  morn 

Has  stayed  upon  his  brow, 
And  you  may  sing,  and  you  may  sing, 

He  kept  his  lover's  vow. 
The  starry  sky,  the  starry  sky, 

In  beauty  spans  above, 
And  you  may  read  to  any  maid 

His  journey  was  of  love." 

SHE. 

"They  tell  me  that  he  loves  me  now 

As  flowers  the  silvery  dew, 
And  I  shall  be  the  happiest  wife 

Beneath  the  bended  blue ; 
And  all  the  days  will  come  and  go 

With  music  of  the  spheres, 
And  like  a  cradle  song  will  seem 

The  slowly  rounding  years. 

"And  I  shall  thank  the  stars  above, 

The  dewy,  dappled  dawn, 
If  as  his  wife  I  seem  the  bride 

He  wooed  on  yestermorn ; 
For  if  I  thought  the  sacred  tie 

Would  less  our  wedded  love, 
O  Muses  !  paint  the  tear-wet  eye, 

The  darkened  stars  above !" 

MINSTKELS   SING. 

"But  hark!  the  sound,  the  heavy  sound, 

As  madly  rushing  steed ; 
Oh  God!  oh  God!  oh  mystic  God! 

The  maiden's  heart  may  bleed! 
The  steed  has  gone  in  tameless  flight, 

And  she  that  waits  a  bride, 
Hears  hushed  voices  thro'  the  hall : 

'The  wound  is  deep  and  wide  !' 

"And  rushing  there  this  bride  elect, 

This  rosy  bride  in  white, 
She  saw  them  bear  his  lifeless  form, 

The  bridegroom  of  her  plight ! 
Oh  weep!  oh  wail!  the  skies  are  dark, 

The  clouds  hang  thick  and  drear, 
Her  bridegroom's  blood  is  on  her  hands, 

But  grief  has  dried  the  tear!" 


WHICH  METER'S  BEST,  APOLLO?  287 

SHE. 

"And  I  shall  be  the  happiest  bride, 

The  happiest  maiden  yet, 
With  love  and  song,  and  vine  and  flower, 

And  beauties  meekly  met ; 
Oh  listen  !  listen  !  hear  the  hoofs  ! 

They  come  !  they  come  !  they  come ! 
O  loved  and  won,  I'm  ever  thine  ! 

Thou'lt  take  me,  take  me  home ! 

"And  now  the  white-haired  priest  is  come, 

My  lover's  at  the  gate ! 
Wake  way  !  make  way  !  ye  maidens  all, 

For  love  has  found  his  mate  ! 
The  rose  I  gave  was  white,— but  red  ! 

'Tis  red  as  human  blood  ! 
My  hands  are  red !  O  God !  O  God  !  J 

The  rose  is  dyed  with  blood  !" 

MINSTRELS  SING. 

"Oh  mournful,  mournful,  mournful  sound ! 

Oh  bitter,  bitter  gale! 
Oh  feast,  oh  feast,  oh  wedding  feast! 

Oh  viands  cold  and  stale ! 
Oh  hope  that  never  reached  a  goal ! 

Oh  wedding  never  made ! 
The  volumed  thunders  o'er  them  roll ! 

Two  graves  in  flowers  are  'rayed!" 


WHICH  METER'S  BEST,  APOLLO? 


"Which  meter's  best,  Apollo?"  and  the  voice 
Did  come  as  one  who  sought  the  truth,  and  loved 
The  Muses  for  their  sweetest  selves  alone, 
And  things  that  natural  shaped  from  purest  heart, 
And  unadorned  of  tawdry  Art  made  music 
Akin  to  golden  lyres  the  poets  played 
When  love  and  fame,  and  less  of  fame,  was  all 
The  native  muse  could  give.    A  silence  brief, 
And  all  the  listening  air  to  music  waked, 
And  far  above  the  Ionian  mount  the  Muses, 
(Where  all  the  dappled  morn  was  pure  of  cloud, 
And  lucent  skies  forbode  no  coming  storm, 


288  THE  LADY  OF DAEDALE. 

For  half  a  century  weeping  vain  the  coming 

Poet  enlaureled  from  the  skies,  and  fit 

To  take  the  Laureate's*  place  when  merciless  death 

Should  twine  a  fadeless  laurel  for  his  brow, 

And  number  him  among  the  immortal  few 

Who  drank  the  nectar  of  the  gods,  and  sang 

The  hardy  plowman  from  the  shining  share, 

Of  him  whose  whisper  shaped  a  nation's  course, 

And  empires  caused  to  fall  and  rise,)  in  blue 

As  pure  as  angel  thoughts,  enwinged,  whilst  he, 

For  fifty  fruitless  years  awaiting  music 

From  newer  harps,  did  answer  there  a  voice 

Not  heard  since  Homer  sang  for  unborn  time, 

Or  pure  Columbia's  laureled  bard,t  his  lyre 

Left  hanging  sweet  'mong  holly  groves  of  children, 

And  peaceful  homes  where  gentleness  and  love 

And  crowned  Hope  were  gods  and  queens  of  all 

The  rounding  years.    As  once  a  Grecian  Greece, 

And  Roman  Rome,  now  fallen  to  thinnest  dust, 

Might  spring  to  life  again  in  all  their  glory, 

So  Delphi,  for  the  voice  was  strange,  and  first 

To  break  the  heavy  silence  since  he,  Keats, 

And  Coleridge,  Tennyson,  and  Shelley,  all 

The  master  singers  clustering  diamond  stars 

About  the  Throne  of  Delphos,  catching  fire 

And  inspiration  from  the  voiced  soul. 

Unlike  the  bard  who  goes  to  books,  and  tutors, 

And  earthly  things,  for  rules  to  talk  of  heaven, 

And  beauties  only  seen  of  poets'  souls, 

First  sang  the  Delphic  strain,  and  left  the  Muses 

Alone  to  weep  that  dearth  of  verse  should  be, 

And  they  should  go  and  bear  no  offspring  great  : 

"Thy  question  betrays  the  poet.    Great  concern 
For  which  is  best,  a  sensitive  spirit  shows, 
And  crowns  you  bard  from  Nature's  native  vales." 
And  as  the  melody  of  stringed  harps, 
The  voice  away  among  the  listening  skies 
Was  lost ;  but  short,  as  volumed  stream  or  music 
Returned  from  quiet  vales,  it  sounded  there : 

"My  answer :  back  among  the  sky-clad  hills 
There  lives  a  maiden  pure  as  vestal  stars, 
Her  hair  is  golden  as  the  sun,  and  shimmers 
Adpwn  her  perfect  shoulders,  arched  by  gods, 
In  native  naturalness ;  her  form  the  wonder 
And  pleased  delight  of  all,  and  from  her  eye, 
Bluer  than  midnight  skies,  there  falls  a  light 
Translucent  as  ./Eonian  dawns,  and  stars 
*Tenuyson.  {Longfellow. 


BESIDE  HIS  DA  UGHTER'S  OKA  VE.  289 

Do  shine  in  perfect  beauty,  and  her  garb, 
As  natural  falls  about  her  chiseled  form 
As  mountain  brook  with  rainbow-tipt  cascade 
About  the  domed  grotto  hid  in  flowers 
Far,  far  below  the  jagged  height :  her  feet, 
E'en  bare  as  new-born  babe,  a  picture  in 
Themselves  do  make,  and  Naturalness  encrowns 
Her  whole  and  perfect  self,  and  paints  her  queen 
Above  the  arts."    And  he  who  came  in  truth, 
Ketouched  his  harp  the  way  it  pleased  him  best, 
And  not  as  vaunting  fashion  had  decreed. 
And  rose  his  fame,  and  honeyed  gales  did  bear 
His  greatness  far  across  the  rubied  main, 
And  all  the  world:  "How  natural !"  and  Burns 
With  wealth  of  song  and  native  strain  made  music 
The  listening  heavens  have  borne  on  every  gale. 


BESIDE  HIS  DAUGHTER'S  GRAVE. 

O  pure  and  spotless  Ingersoll ! 

O  charmed  god  of  eloquence ! 
And  may  my  muse  your  lovelier  muse 

E'en  win  to  purer  law  and  sense ; 
For  here  beside  the  open  grave, 

And  open  'neath  the  broad  bright  sun, 
A  scholar  cultured  in  the  arts, 

Finds  now  what  death,  e'en  death  has  done. 

He  stands  in  manhood's  prime  of  wealth, 

A  Solon  in  his  knowledge  gained, 
The  Bible  weighed  by  every  law, 

And  yet  no  page  that  time  has  stained; 
And  he  can  read  but  yet  his  faith, 

His  faith  is  kin,  is  kin  of  hers 
Who  stands  beside  her  nursling's  grave, 

'Mid  tangled  weeds  and  clustered  flowers. 

"O  Knowledge!  Earth!  clivinest  Reach ! 

0  all  the  gold  and  wealth  of  Ind ! 
E'en  here  beside  the  open  grave 

1  feel  a  faith  akin  to  Mind, 
That  mind  so  pure  in  lucent  ray, 

That  magi,  sage,  and  god  of  earth, 
All  knowledge  gained  from  mystic  lore, 
Are  dead  and  void  e'en  at  their  birth! 


290  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"O  Ingersoll !  I'd  have  the  tree 

E'en  perfect  after  its  own  kind, 
The  rose  without  the  hidden  briar, 

Perfection  in  the  human  mind ; 
But  yet,  O  yet !  from  out  the  grave 

I'd  grasp  the  faith  of  Hope  beyond, 
And  this  dear  form  we  lose  so  loath, 

May  bind  my  heart  with  holy  bond ! 

"And  earth  shall  be  of  base  alloy, 

With  briar  and  thorn,  and  bitter  rose, 
And  fevers  desolate  the  land, 

And  death  bring  life  to  sudden  close, 
And  Joy,  and  Woe  go  side  by  side, 

With  faith  in  something  far  across 
The  sounding  Stream,  and  even  I 

Shall  find  a  solace  for  my  loss. 

"O  Earth !  I  love  you  as  you  are ! 

O  Bible !  you  shall  rise  above 
The  petty  wills  of  human  kind, 

And  crown  the  World  with  holy  love ! 
My  daughter !  God  has  ta'en  thee  now, 

But  Faith  and  Hope  have  made  a  bond 
That  binds  the  soul  of  fleeting  earth 

To  soul  of  thine  now  crowned  beyond!" 

And  he  who  knew  the  ways  of  men, 

And  saw  all  routes  with  ending  tomb, 
Found  hope  beside  his  daughter's  grave, 

And  Faith  as  roses  fresh  in  bloom ! 
O  Voltaire !    Ingersoll !  let  Death 

Encrown  with  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Love, 
And  every  mourner  'neath  the  breath : 

"I  see  them  crown  with  wreaths  above!" 


THE  SEAMSTRESS. 

Oh  ye  that  love  the  honest  poor, 

And  feel  it  in  your  hearts 
To  aid  these  pure  deserving  ones, 

Where  every  hope  departs, 
Oh  trace  with  me  the  rickety  stair, 

The  coarse  uneven  way, 
And  I  will  point  you  in  despair 

A  woman  worn  and  gray. 


THE  SEAMSTRESS.  291 

The  hour  is  late,  and  lamps  are  out, 

And  all  the  world  is  still, 
Save  music  from  the  banquet  hall, 

Where  goblets  clash  and  fill. 
The  distant  thud,  thud,  thud, 

Of  watchman  on  his  beat, 
Breaks  on  the  heart  like  tales  of  blood 

The  wild,  wild  winds  repeat. 

We  push  the  door  that  has  no  lock, 

No  b'ronzed  and  yielding  knob, 
And  there  beside  the  broken  stand 

With  mingled  sigh  and  sob, 
A  careworn  mother  sits  and  sews, 

While  near  in  scanty  cot, 
A  little  nursling  wild-flower  blows, 

By  all  the  world  forgot ! 

A  half-burned  candle  on  the  stand 

Makes  twilight  of  the  gloom ; 
But  O  my  friend  of  countless  wealth, 

You  cannot  know  the  doom ! 
You  cannot,  cannot  feel  as  she, 

Your  life  has  been  of  ease, 
Your  freighted  ships  are  on  the  sea 

Before  a  buoyant  breeze. 

O  lay  aside  your  loaded  bags, 

Your  comforts,  ease,  and  wealth, 
While  hopes  together  side  by  side 

Have  gone  with  rosy  health, 
And  sit  from  morn  to  rosy  e'en, 

No  comforts  of  the  rich, 
Not  one  bright  hour  in  all  the  scene, 

And  stitch,  stitch,  stitch! 


WHAT  THE  BRIDE  SAID, 

"They  said  my  Jasper,  like  the  morning  sun, 
Outshone  across  my  life,  and  that  I,  Lora, 
Was  blessed  above  my  sex,  and  wedded  days 
Would  pass  a  happy  dream  adown  the  tide 
Of  time,  and  roses,  blushing  with  the  morn, 
Would  bloom  about  my  walks,  and  sweeten  all 
My  wedded  years,  till  death  should  fall  a  cloud 
Across  our  home,  and  break  the  holy  tie 


292  THE  LADY  OF  DAKDALE. 

That  bound  us  one.    And,  pretty  maids,  they  shaped 

A  golden  future  diademed  and  starred, 

And  I,  poor  girl,  e'en  painted  rosier  dawns 

Than  they,  with  Solomon-like  gardens  hung 

Above  the  peopled  world.    Two  score  of  years 

Have  crowned  my  auburn  locks  with  gray,  and  laid 

Forever  in  the  tomb,  my  cherished  love ! — 

Don't  mind  the  tears,  one  feels  so  all  alone 

When  years  and  years  have  gone  in  married  love, 

And  sudden  every  tie  is  severed  binding 

Two  happy  beings  born  the  twins  of  life, 

And  one  is  left  to  wander  on  alone. 

They  painted  vivid  scenes,  as  I  had  done, 

And  pictured  glowingly  all  the  coming  days.— 

And  now,  my  rosy  maids,  my  tale  is  brief ; 

But  hear  the  moral :  I  am  old,  and  life 

Has  been  a  school  of  varied  experience, 

And  bright  as  all  the  sky  with  dappled  cloud 

And  glittering  star,  and  ringing  bells,  and  music. 

I  still  knew  not  the  golden  secret  life 

In  wedded  guise  would  show  when  honeymoons 

Should  wheel  across  the  bended  blue,  and  years 

Had  sunk  with  many  a  golden  sun  with  all 

Their  myriad  teachings ;  but  our  life,  that  bells 

Had  rung  together,  taught  us  many  a  truth. 

Bear  and  forbear,'  were  gems  of  beaded  dew  \   • 

That  freshened  all  our  love,  and  mountain  Care 

Keduced  in  size  to  pygmies,  fays  of  beauty 

Dancing  a  Highland  fling  upon  the  wreck 

This  saying  had  enshaped.    So  just  this  outline 

To  show  that  Love,  the  first  and  last  of  life, 

May  lose  his  wings,  and  helpless  as  a  nursling 

Babe,  need  the  care  a  hoping  heart  can  give. 

So  girls,  with  apple  cheeks,  Avhen  care  makes  anger, 

Let  all  your  self-restraint  encrown  your  brow, 

And  speech  be  dumb  as  eunuch  slaves  in  harems 

Of  oriental  kings ;  for  Silence  conquers 

When  all,  all  other  forces  fail. — Good-bye." 


A  PENNY,  SIR. 

"A  penny,  sir,  my  mother's  sick, 

And  on  her  dying  bed ; 
My  heart  was  nearly  broken,  sir, 

When  pa,  they  said,  was  dead 


JUNE.  293 


And  now  my  mother,  O  so  pure ! 

She,  too,  is  lying  ill, 
What  shall  I  do  when  both  are  gone, 

And  winter's  cold  and  chill  ? 

"A  penny,  sir,  is  all  I  ask, 

The  streets  are  full  of  men, 
A  little  mite  from  each  one  makes 

A  one,  and  two,  and  ten ; 
Ten  cents,  dear  sir,  is  quite  a  sum 

For  such  a  girl  as  I, 
Who  have  not  known  a  dollar  since 

My  pa,  they  said,  would  die. 

"Your  purse  is  full,  a  penny,  sir, 

You'd  never  feel  its  loss, 
For  he  who  gives  unto  the  poor 

Has  lessed  a  double  cross, 
I  asked  a  mite,  y»u  give  me  more, 

I  thank  you,  knowing  not 
Who  you  may  be,  but  list,  kind  sir, 

You'll  never  be  forgot.'' 

"I  thank  thee,  thank  thee,  little  maid, 

That  earth  has  such  as  you, 
The  human  heart  is  softer  'rayed, 

The  skies  a  softer  blue ; 
We  need  you  child,  my  little  dear, 

To  keep  the  cold  heart  warm, 
You  teach  us  how  to  give  in  fear 

Of  him  who  rules  the  storm." 


JUNE. 


Oh  June,  oh  June,  you're  all  in  tune 

With  flower  and  fairest  rosy, 
I'll  strike  the  lyre  to  notes  of  fire, 

And  woo  the  maids  of  poesy ; 
For  you  and  I  beneath  the  sky, 

Have  set  old  Winter  howling, 
The  Spring  in  bloom  has  told  his  doom, 

And  there  he  sits  a-scowling. 


291:  THE  LADY  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

He  came  upon  us  in  the  fall 

When  Autumn's  golden  chalice 
Was  flowing  with  a  boon  for  all 

Who  love  old  Nature's  palace ; 
He  banked  the  house  and  closed  the  doors, 

And  shut  us  in  the  kitchen, 
A  bloodless  ghost  from  other  shores, 

On  barn,  and  house,  and  lichen. 

We  fought  him  hard,  and  burned  him  out 

From  parlor,  hall,  and  larder, 
We  drove  him  back,  but  he  did  shout, 

And  stormed,  and  blew  the  harder, 
Till  love  and  I  shrunk  in  a  nook 

Beside  the  fireplace  roaring, 
And  tho'  he  shut  the  meadow  brook, 

Sweet  love  was  still  imploring. 

But  June,  my  June,  my  rosy  June! 

We've  broken  ward  and  guarder. 
And  Spring  sings  out  a  merry  tune, 

The  cow-boy  in  the  larder; 
The  milk-maid  brings  the  frothing  pail, 

The  farmer  feeds  the  cattle, 
And  Winter  doffs  his  brazen  mail, 

For  June  has  won  the  battle. 


MY  BOOKS. 


They  dwell  in  the  odor  of  camphor, 
They  stand  in  a  Sherraton  shrine, 

They  are  "warranted  early  editions," 
These  worshipful  books  of  mine ; — 

In  their  cream-colored  "Oxford  vellum," 
In  their  redolent  "crushed  Levant," 

With  their  delicate  "watered  linings," 
They  are  jewels  of  price,  I  grant  ;— 

"Blind-tooled"  and  "morocco-jointed," 
They  have  Zaehnsdorf 's  daintiest  dress, 

They  are  graceful,  attenuate,  polished, 
But  they  gather  the  dust,  no  less :— 


MY  FAVOItlTES.  295 

For  the  row  that  I  prize  is  yonder, 

Away  on  the  unglazed  shelves, 
The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 

The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves,— 

Montaigne  with  his  sheepskin  blistered, 

And  Howell  the  worse  for  wear, 
And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuits'  Horace, 

And  the  little  old  cropped  Moliere, — 

And  the  Burton  I  bought  for  fourpence, 

And  the  Rabelais  foxed  and  flea'd, — 
For  the  others  I  never  have  opened, 

But  those  are  the  ones  I  read. 

— Austin  Dobson. 


MY  FAVORITES.* 


Keats  I  love,  I  love  him  true, 

Freshest  dews  are  on  his  flowers, 
Rainbow  tints  from  out  the  blue 

Join  the  chorus :  "He  is  ours !" 

Shelley  vates  is  supreme 

Of  the  Muses'  coming  ages, 
Numbers  his  a  seraph's  dream, 

Faintly  drawn  across  his  pages. 

Coleridge,  nay,  I  may  not  leave, 

He  is  mine,  and  mine  forever, 
Christabels  a  Genevieve, 

Loving  once,  I  love  them  ever. 

Tennyson,  ah !  come  as  one 
Out  the  heavens  with  softer  powers, 

Ranked  fourth,  yet  said  and  done, 
All  to  me  are  mateless  flowers. 

These  the  Four,  my  choice  no  choice, 

Reading  one  I  rank  him  nearer ; 
But  from  Thought  a  cultured  voice : 

"He  is  dear,  but  is  he  dearer?" 
^Suggested  by  the  inimitable  poem  entitled  "My  Books,"  by  Austin  Dobson. 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  TO  ME.  W.  W.  CORCORAN 
OF  WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

'  Our  brother  now  is  coming  home, 

He's  coming  home  at  last, 
We  see  the  sails,  the  snowy  sails, 

Outspread  upon  the  blast ; 
And  he  who  sang  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home," 

The  dearest  spot  of  earth, 
Will  soon  be  here  among  his  friends, 

The  land  that  gave  him  birth. 

A  myriad  band  with  tearful  eyes, 

Have  watched  the  great  ship  move, 
A  band  that  came  frbm  home,  sweet  homes, 

In  humblest,  holiest  love ; 
For  he  who  sang  home's  tenderest  song 

Is  soon  to  leave  them  lone, 
And  find  a  welcome  in  the  land 

That  he  can  call  his  own. 

O  sail,  proud  ship !  and  cross  the  wave, 

And  bear  thy  sacred  trust, 
Tho'  all  you  bear  of  him  who  sang 

Is  but  the  hallowed  dust ; 
But  breast  the  wave,  and  stem  the  tide, 

And  guard  thy  holy  freight, 
For  here  in  many  a  lowly  cot 

The  loved  ones  watch  and  wait. 

And  even  they  who  cannot  know 

The  poor  man's  humbler  scenes, 
For  every  heart  that  ever  loved 

Will  know  what  all  this  means ; 
For  home,  sweet  home's  the  holiest  place 

Of  any  found  on  earth, 
And  he  who  sang  her  sweetest  song, 

Finds  here  his  place  of  birth. 

296 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 


FIFTY  YEAKS.  297 

O  welcome,  ship !  the  proudest  ship 

That  ever  stemmed  the  tide, 
For  now  you  bear  the  sacred  dust 

Of  him  who  sang  and  died, 
Of  him  who  knew  to  value  true 

The  hallowed  name  of  Home, 
Tho'  he  like  vagrant  on  the  earth 

In  foreign  lands  did  roam. 

But  come,  we  gather  far  and  near, 

We  wait  upon  the  strand, 
We  crowd  upon  his  native  shore 

To  take  him  by  the  hand ; 
But,  ah!  O  God  who  loveth  all, 

We've  waited  here  in  vain, 
For  he  who  sang  for  every  home, 

Will  never  sing  again ! 

O  hush !  O  hark !  O  pause  and  wait ! 

O  humbly  bow  the  head ! 
For  'tis  the  dust,  the  holy  dust, 

Of  him,  our  sacred  dead ! 
Of  him  who  wandered,  wandered  on, 

And  wandering,  yet  did  roam, 
Until  at  last,  at  last  he  finds 

A  place  to  call  his  Home ! 


FIFTY  YEARS. 


Your  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  then, 
Your  hands  were  white  as  snow, 

But,  darling,  from  your  sunken  cheek, 
The  rose  went  long  ago. 

Our  love  was  like  the  babbling  brook, 
Our  hearts  were  mated  true, 

And  out  of  all  the  world  'twas  I 
Seemed  made  for  only  you. 

'Twas  you  alone  could  give  me  pain, 

I  loved  and  knew  not  why, 
But  something  in  your  presence  made 

You  sacred  in  my  eye. 


THE  LADY  OFDAEDALE. 

Your  life  to  mine  was  all  in  all, 
The  world  seemed  bigger  grown, 

And  all  was  perfect  when  they  made 
You  mine,  and  mine  alone. 

'Twas  then  your  cheeks  were  roses  red, 
'Twas  then  your  cheeks  were  round, 

And  perfect  Eden  came  again 
Where  only  love  had  bound. 

We  felt  the  world  had  stopped  to  gaze, 

Our  hearts  were  like  the  roe, 
But  darling,  darling  can  you  think 

'Twas  fifty  years  ago? 

Your  step  is  slow  and  tottering  now, 
Your  strength  has  gone  with  mine, 

But  still  my  love  remains  the  same 
And  lives  for  thee  and  thine. 

Your  hands  are  old  and  withered,  too, 
Your  voice  is  hushed  and  low, 

The  locks  that  once  were  auburn  brown, 
Are  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Our  Lucy,  Henry,  John  and  James, 
Their  graves  are  side  by  side, 

We  gave  them  as  the  holy  gift 
From  bridegroom  and  from  bride. 

We  came  together  fresh  with  love, 

We  joined  our  lots  as  one, 
A  little  longer,  longer  yet, 

The  journey  will  be  done ! 


GOD  IS  WITH  YOU. 

My  darling  son  'tis  hard  to  go, 
But  every  home  must  know  of  death ; 

We  come  as  children  here  below, 
We  watch  and  wait  with  bated  breath. 

The  laws  of  nature  teach  the  heart 
That  life's  uncertain  day  by  day, 

That  tho'  we  hide  within  the  mart 
We  see  a  grave  beside  the  way. 


GOD  IS  WITH  YOU.  299 

But  God  is  with  you,  O  my  son ! 

All  friends  are  gone,  but  He  is  near ; 
Your  heart  is  faint  with  goal  unwon, 

He  heeds  the  sparrow  and  thy  tear. 

Your  life  is  yours  to  make  it  His, 

Your  aims  are  high  and  you  shall  win ; 
You  are  of  life,  take  what  there  is, 

No  sculptor  write :  "It  might  have  been!" 

The  years  have  rounded  one  by  one, 

Till  uninvited  conies  between, 
A  guest  that  says:  "Thy  work  is  done!" 

A  broken  picture  shows  the  scene. 

But  yet,  my  son,  tho'  I  be  gone, 

He,  God  is  with  you,  trust  in  Him ; 
The  pictures  meet ! — my  marriage  morn ! — 

The  home-scene  faints,  the  earth  is  dim. 

But  list  my  word,  for  life  has  told 

A  myriad  story,  hear  it  through ; 
A  dying  father  has  no  gold 

So  pure  as  wisdom  tried  and  true. 

I  leave  you  poor,  but  golden  words, 

That  years  have  garneredione  by  one, 
May  fall  as  sweet  as  song  of  birds. 

And  glow  more  golden  than  the  sun. 

My  breath  is  faint,  I  feel  a  hand, 

It  strokes  my  brow,  and  I  regain 
The  hope  that  binds  with  holy  baud, 

And  paints  a  heaven  across  the  main. 

You  weep,  my  sou,  but  he  who  lives 

As  best  he  knows  may  never  die ; 
There  is  a  death  that  truly  gives 

A  holier  home  across  the  sky. 

My  wife,  my  son,  I  say  adieu ; 

We  meet  again  in  other  years ; 
But  God  remains,  and  ever  true, 

He  finds  a  solace  for  your  tears. 

Whate'er  betide  when  I  am  gone, 

Have  faith  in  Him,  His  ways  are  right ; 
Tho'  Heaven  fall  before  the  dawn, 

He'll  reach  a  hand  across  the  night. 


300  THE  LADY  OF  DAKDALE. 

Good-bye,  my  son,  my  loving  wife, 
I'm  thine  on  earth  no  more,  no  more ; 

But  from  its  whirl,  and  toil,  and  strife, 
I  go  as  one  whose  trials  are  o'er. 

I  go  to  Him,  but  watch  and  wait, 
For  God  is  with  you,  with  you  now ; 

And  He  will  see  when  at  the  Gate, 
You,  son  and  mother,  meekly  bow. 

0  faretheewTell !  a  last  farewell ! 
Your  forms  commingle  in  my  sight, 

1  hear  the  bell,  the  silver  bell, 

And  earth  is  dark,  but  There  no  night ! 


CHARLIE  ROSS- 

Oh  my  mother  do  you  love  me, 

Do  you  love  me  now  I'm  gone  ? 
Do  you  think  of  little  Charlie 

When  the  day  begins  to  dawn  ? 
When  the  morning  shapes  to  even, 

And  the  even  grows  to  day  ? 
And  the  birds  are  singing  sweetly, 

Where  your  Charlie  used  to  play  ? 

O  my  mother !  O  my  mother ! 

O  my  father !  father  dear !  • 
Would  you  know  your  little  Charlie 

Should  he  come  within  the  year? 
Would  you  find  the  boy  the  baby 

That  you  cuddled  on  your  knee, 
And  my  mother  and  my  father, 

Think  the  world  and  more  of  me  ? 

O  to  feel  that  you  are  watching, 

And  he  never,  never'll  come ; 
But  my  mother  he  will  love  you, 

Tho'  he  never  more  come  home; 
But  your  hair  is  growing  grayer, 

And  the  hours  they  seem  so  long; 
But  my  mother  there's  a  heaven 

Where  no  Charlies  come  to  wrong ! 


THE  DIVOECE.  301 

Do  you  watch  with  stars  at  even 

For  the  coming  of  his  tread, 
And  together  by  the  bedside 

Pray  your  darling  is  not  dead? 
Do  you  think  when  even  gathers 

Of  the  child  that  said  "good-night," 
Of  the  little  kiss  at  parting, 

Ere  you  tucked  him  in  so  tight? 

And  the  playthings  spoiled  and  broken 

Which  were  scattered  on  the  floor, 
And  the  thousand  things  that  vexed  you, 

Tho'  you  loved  him  more  and  more  ? 
Do  you  see  an  empty  cradle, 

And  a  vacant  cot  at  night, 
And  a  room  that  is  so  silent 

That  you  cannot  bear  the  sight? 

O  my  mother,  now  we're  parted, 

How  I  see  your  quiet  grace ! 
And  the  sweet  forgiveness  hovering 

Like  a  halo  round  your  face ! 
O  I  wish  that  I  could  ask  you 

With  a  finer  tone  and  thought, 
"O  my  mother  you'll  forgive  me 

For  the  little  cares  I  wrought !" 

But  my  mother  and  my  father 

That  so  vainly,  vainly  yearn, 
Don't  forget  your  little  Charlie, 

Tho'  his  fate  you  never  learn ; 
There's  a  Heaven  in  the  ether, 

There's  a  Doorway  in  the  blue, 
And  my  father  and  my  mother, 

Little  Charlie'll  lead  you  thro' ! 


THE  DIVORCE. 


"Oh- there's  papa!"  and  looking  up 

I  saw  a  pretty  maid, 
And  she  to  me  did  seem  as  free 

As  wild  bird  in  the  glade. 


302  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  hour  was  noon,  and  from  her  school 

She  ran  as  wild  gazelle, 
No  fear  where  tear  did  once  appear, 

And  like  a  dewdrop  fell. 

The  cruel  law  had  made  her  home 

A  memory  full  of  woe, 
And  came  in  shame,  and  did  proclaim 

"Divorce !"  and  one  must  go. 

The  mother  then  the  father  left, 
All  marriage  ties  foresworn, 

And  child  so  mild  and  uiidefiled, 
From  loved  sire  was  torn. 

And  whose  the  blame,  you  well  may  ask? 

A  fault  that  grew  apace, 
Till  fell  the  knell  like  funeral  bell, 

With  teardrops  on  the  face. 

But  hush,  O  Heart !  this  little  maid 

Is  guiltless  as  the  stars, 
While  there  as  fair  as  roses  rare, 

She  lisps  her  sweet  "pa-pas." 

Around  his  neck  in  loving  way, 
Two  little  arms  are  thrown, 

And  word  as  bird  in  springtime  heard 
Falls  there  in  mellow  tone. 

"Papa!"  she  said  as  soft  and  sweet 

As  song-note  of  the  lark, 
When  high  in  sky  his  native  cry 

Breaks  thro'  the  lingering  dark. 

"Oh  why  did  mother  leave  you  so? 

I'm  sure  I  love  you,  pa !" 
And  like  a  light  across  the  night 

She  shone  a  silver  star. 

"My  darling  child,  you  cannot  know !" 
And  great  big  teardrops  fell, 

As  soft  as  oft  by  lilies  doffed 
When  even  veils  the  dell. 

"You  cannot  know.    There,  do  not  cry ! 
Your  mother  loves  you  yet ; 


AT  LAST. 

And  I  may  cry  beneath  the  sky, 
But  never  can  forget ! 

"There,  leave  me  now,  your  mother  waits, 

She'll  think  her  darling  lost!" 
And  O  the  blow !  the  nameless  woe  I 

The  bitter  pain  it  cost ! 

And  both  to  blame  ?  1  may  not  say. 

Can  quarrels  come  of  one  ? 
Can  strife  in  life  twixt  man  and  wife 

By  one  alone  be  done  ? 

For  sake  of  her  who  sheds  her  tears, 

And  knows  no  reason  why, 
The  Dove  of  love  now  flown  above 

Should  bind  the  sacred  tie. 

And  selfish  motives  born  of  life, 

Should  perish  side  by  side, 
And  he  and  she  that  wed  so  free, 

Be  bridegroom  still  and  bride ! 


AT  LAST. 

A  brown  stone  front,  with  marble  steps,  the  envy 

For  miles  around  of  many  a  lesser  lord, 

And  rising  castle-like  amid  its  gardens 

With  flower  and  vine  and  many-hu6d  rose, 

From  farthest  Ind  or  India  brought,  it  shaped 

A  picture  fair  of  Paradise  on  earth, 

And  left  no  hope  of  Heaven  yet  to  be, 

For  this  was  Heaven,  or  so  it  seemed  to  eye 

Of  stranger,  friend  or  guest ;  and  many  an  art, 

Italian,  Gothic,  Guide's  noblest  thought, 

Had  wooed  a  niche  among  a  thousand  rarities, 

Adopted  from  the  myriad  world,  and  there 

In  one  harmonious  song,  as  siren  sweet 

As  mermaid  queens,  with  love  their  only  ditty, 

In  volumed  symphonies  outrang,  and  died 

Among  the  vaulted  skies.    His  form  was  bent, 

His  hair  as  clouds  that  trim  their  sails  in  morn's 

Translucent  ray.    The  years  were  on  his  brow 

In  faintest  tracery,  as  one  who  long 


304  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Ago  had  found  both  Peace  and  Love,  and  Time 

Had  passed  as  golden  dream  to  her  who  late 

Was  met  with  honey  days  and  rounded  moons, 

Culture  a  Goddess,  sat  in  holy  sway 

And  mellowed  all  his  look  and  style,  a  man 

In  fruited  lowlihood,  and  crushed  at  last ! 

He  kissed  his  wife  adieu,  his  children  all, 

And  from  the  marble  halls,  and  gardens  stretching 

Broad,  took  his  leave.    He  saw  not,  heard  not,  but 

As  one  in  dream  too  dark  for  solving,  moved 

His  form,  and  sounds  unheard  took  voice  and  sung. 


THE  WAYSIDE  WELL. 


He  stopped  at  the  wayside  well, 
Where  the  water  was  cool  and  deep ; 

There  were  feathery  ferns  twixi  the  mossy  stones, 
And  gray  was  the  old  well-sweep. 

He  left  his  carriage  alone ; 

Nor  could  coachman  or  footman  tell 
Why  the  master  stopped  in  the  dusty  road 

To  drink  at  the  wayside  well. 

He  swayed  with  his  gloved  hands 

The  well-sweep  creaking  and  slow, 
While  from  seam  and  scar  in  the  bucket's  side 

The  water  splashed  back  below. 

He  lifted  it  to  the  curb, 

And  bent  down  to  the  bucket's  brim ; 
No  furrows  of  time  or  care  had  marked 

The  face  that  looked  back  at  him. 

He  saw  but  a  farmer's  boy 
As  he  stooped  o'er  the  edge  to  drink, 

And  ruddy  and  tanned  was  the  laughing  face 
That  met  his  over  the  brink. 

The  eyes  were  sunny  and  clear, 

And  the  brow  undimmed  by  care, 
While  from  under  the  rim  of  the  old  straw  hat 

Strayed  curls  of  chestnut  hair . 


GRANDPA'S  STOEY.  306 

He  turned  away  with  a  sigh ; 

Nor  could  coachman  or  footman  tell 
Why  the  master  stopped  in  his  ride  that  day 

To  drink  at  the  wayside  well. 

—  Walter  Learned. 


GRANDPA'S  STORY. 


"Over  fifty  years  ago,  my  children," 

And  Ned,  and  John,  and  Jock,  and  Jill, 
Bessie,  Mary,  Jane,  and  rosy  Charlotte, 

Stood  round  his  chair  and  drank  their  fill 
Of  the  pretty,  pretty  little  story 

That  he  their  dear  old  grandpa  knew ; 
And  the  storm  that  howled  against  the  window, 

The  snow  that  danced  from  out  the  blue, 
And  the  hurry,  scurry,  blurry,  worry, 

Roared  there  in  vain  its  loud  ado. 

ii. 
"Over  fifty  years  ago,  my  children,    ... 

A  pretty,  pretty  little  maid, 
And  a  boy  that  was  a  trifle  older, 

Attended  school  in  dress  arrayed 
That  the  prouder  ones  had  said  was  common, 

And  laughed  at  as  they  sometimes  will ; 
But  they  heeded  not  the  taunts  and  jestings, 

And  one  was  big  as  little  Jill, 
And  the  other  near  the  size  of  Bessie, 

Or  Jane,  or  Charlotte,  which  you  will. 

in. 
"Well,  they  called  him  Jock,  and  she  was  Lucy, 

Tho'  Luce  the  name  they  knew  her  by ; 
For  you  see  they  did  not  love  these  children, 

Tho'  she  seemed  pretty  in  my  eye ; 
And  this  Jock,  tho'  a  little  duller, 

Like  many  a  child  did  seem  to  me ; 
But  the  children  sometimes  hate  each  other 

For  reasons  I  could  never  see ; 
But  the  school  was  like  my  Bessie's,  Charlotte's, 

Or  Ned's,  or  Mary's,  it  may  be. 
20 


300  THE  LAD  T  OF  DA  RDALE. 

IV. 

"But  the  hours  wore  on,  and  faster,  faster, 

The  little  days  made  bigger  years, 
And  my  dull-eyed  Jock  and  fair-haired  Lucy 

Hose  far  above  the  taunts  and  sneers ; 
They  in  teens  had  been  the  smartest  scholars, 

And  she  stood  head  in  every  class, 
For  instead  of  being  dull  and  simple, 

They  differed  only  from  the  mass, 
And  to  playing  gave  but  small  attention, 

A  scholar-boy  and  scholar-lass. 


"But  at  last  their  school-days  all  were  over, 

The  bell  no  more  should  ring  them  in, 
And  the  taunts  no  more  would  pierce  their  bosom, 

No  more  the  school-yard's  maddening  din;" 
And  they  saw  a  tear  upon  his  eyelid, 

And  grandpa's  lip  did  quiver,  too, 
And  his  voice  was  fainter,  and  did  tremble. 

"Oh  grandpa,  what  does  trouble  you  ?" 
And  the  little  voice  was  part  impatient 

That  grandpa  did  not  hurry  through. 

VI. 

"Over  fifty  years  ago,  my  children, 

And  further  let  your  grandpa  say, 
For  the  dull-eyed  Jock  wed  fair-haired  Lucy, 

And  never  such  a  wedding  day ! 
But  the  fair-haired  Lucy  now  is  sleeping 

Beside,  my  dears,  the  old  elm  tree, 
For  I — I  was  Jock,  and  she  was  Lucy ! 

My  wife !  the  world  and  more  to  me !" 
And  the  children  saw  him  crying,  crying, 

And  heard  him  say :  "I  go  to  Thee !" 


TELL  US  OF  HEAVEN 


Tell  us  of  Heaven,  oh  baby  dear ! 

Is  it  true  what  the  wise  men  say, 
That  the  Bible's  no  friend  to  us  down  here, 

And  the  truth  shall  be  known  some  day? 


TELL  US  OF  HEAVEN. 

"I  came  in  the  bell  of  a  lily-white  flower, 

From  out  the  blue,  blue  skies, 
But  the  things  that  I  saw  in  the  heavenly  bower, 

I  leave  to  the  tongue  of  the  wise." 

They  tell  us  that  God  of  the  sun  and  the  rain, 

The  daffodil,  pansy,  and  rose, 
Is  a  twilight  of  dusk  in  the  fallible  brain, 

A  Myth,  as  every  one  knows. 
"A  baby  shall  ask  of  the  great  and  the  wise, 

Oh  why  should  they  kneel  in  their  prayers, 
When  the  snowy-white  steed  from  the  vault  of  the  skies 

Shall  leap  on  their  home  unawares?" 

And  they  tell  us  that  Heaven  is  a  poor  man's  hope 

Across  the  emerald  blue  sea, 
That  never  a  portal  to  Heaven  will  ope 

That  the  eye  of  a  Christain  can  see. 
"My  Father  in  Heaven  is  pure  as  the  stars 

That  dream  in  the  faraway  blue, 
And  a  sinner  may  come  in  his  golden  cars, 

For  there's  a  Heaven  for  him  as  for  you." 

They  tell  us,  O  baby !  that  once  in  the  tomb, 

The  journey  of  mortal  is  done, 
That  a  baby  like  you  may  blush  and  may  bloom, 

As  a  flower  shall  die  in  the  sun. 
"Oh  why  should  they  doubt  the  golden-leaved  Book 

That  came  as  a  blessing  from  God, 
Can  man  make  the  lily  that  grows  by  the  brook, 

E'en  the  weed  that  grows  by  the  sod?" 

They  tell  us  the  Garden,  and  Adam,  and  Eve, 

Are  the  dream  of  a  blind  man's  brain, 
And  the  mortals  that  laugh  and  bewail  and  bereave, 

Are  a  species  that  live  here  in  vain. 
"Did  I  say:  There's  a  Heaven  in  the  faraway  skies, 

A  Home  for  the  good  and  the  true, 
The  Word  of  my  Father  the  wise  man  denies, 

What  then  were  a  baby's  to  you?" 

They  tell  us  that  God  is  a  foe  to  mankind, 

That  the  Church  is  a  curse  in  the  land, 
Where  else  shall  I  look  for  so  perfect  a  Mind  ? 

A  Purpose  so  vast  and  so  grand? 


308  TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"And  Faith  is  the  victor  that  winneth  the  fight, 
And  Heaven  thro'  the  portal  of  Doubt, 

When  she  is  away  there  cometh  a  night, 
And  the  lamps  of  the  mortal  are  out!" 


HO,  HO,  MY  LITTLE  MAN 

Ho,  ho !  my  little  man ! 

You've  lost  your  flaxen  hair 
And  pa  may  have  again 

His  baby  sweet  and  fair ; 
The  years  have  numbered  three 

Since  first  you  'gan  to  blow, 
And  once  again  you  are 

A  babe  to  laugh  and  crow. 

CHORUS. 
O  baby !  lovely  baby ! 

We  have  you  once  again, 
Your  life  is  like  the  rainbow 

That  spans  across  the  main, 
A-like  the  star  of  even, 

The  bourne  across  the  blue, 
The  hope  that  crowns  the  lover 

When  love  is  fresh  and  new. 

We  feel  again  the  love  « 

That  crowned  the  wedded  days, 
When  honeymoons  were  bright, 

And  hope  was  all  ablaze. 
We  see  you  on  the  floor 

A  little  baby  boy, 
But  cannot  feel  the  years 

Have  crowned  our  love  and  joy. 

Your  head  is  white  as  snow, 

A  bigger  baby  far 
Than  when  you  came  and  shone 

A  little  wee-eyed  star. 
Go  back,  oh  Time !  and  paint 

The  rosy-rayed  past, 
The  days  when  she  and  L 

Our  lots  together  cast. 


TOMMY  DAY.  309 

The  "bye  low,  baby"  falls 

As  soft  as  petaled  rose, 
And  half  unconscious  there 

The  baby  blooms  and  blows. 
The  years  have  gone  as  mist, 

And  once,  and  once  again, 
She  has  her  baby  back, 

With  rainbows  in  the  brain. 

She  cannot  feel  the  years 

Have  crowned  the  rosy  hours, 
And  once  her  darling  babe 

A  child  among  the  flowers. 
The  teardrops  glisten  now 

Like  clover-rosaried  dew, 
And  all  her  hallowed  past 

A  rainbow  in  the  blue ! 


TOMMY  DAY. 


And  don't  you  know  my  little  Tommy  ? 

Little  Tommy,  Tommy  Day  ? 
I'm  sure  his  cheeks  like  two  great  apples 

Oft  have  met  you  on  your  way. 

But  he's  a  rogue,  and  mamma's  darling, 
Blue-eyed  rogue  of  three  and  two, 

Just  five,  they  say,  and  roguish  pretty,— 
You  would  like  him,  you  and  you. 

But  dear  me,  dear  me,  he's  a  scholar, 

Just  beyond  his  A,  B,  C ; 
But  such  a  time  to  make  him  study, 

For  he  likes  to  play,  you  see. 

But  there's  the  school-house  over  yonder, 

Hid  among  the  pretty  trees ; 
But  Tommy  sits  beside  the  water, 

Eyes  as  round  as  two  great  peas. 

His  little  pail,  a  cake,  a  cooky, 
Slices  two  of  sweet  brown  bread, 

Was  in  his  lap,  for  little  Tommy 
"Guess  I'll  eat  them  now,"  he  said. 


310  THE  LADY   OF  DAUDALE. 

He  made  a  half  moon  of  his  cooky, 
Cake,  good-by  to  all  your  plums ; 

The  school-belll  rang  but  little  Tommy 
Still  was  digging  with  his  thumbs. 

And  cheeks  of  apple,  weren't  they  shining? 

Didn't  his  eyes  look  bright  as  beads  ? 
And  what  a  lovely,  lovely  picture ! 

Little  flower  among  the  weeds ! 

The  merry  brook  it  sang  so  sweetly ! 

Little  stones  they  shone  so  bright ! 
That  Tommy  Day,  my  little  Tommy, 

Did  forget  the  water  quite. 

"Oh! — oh !"  and  splash  went  little  truant, 
Water  drenched  him  thro'  and  thro', 

Went  in  his  ears,  his  golden  ringlets, 
Filled  his  pretty  eyes  of  blue. 

But  just  in  time  the  good  sweet  mamma 
Caught  him  by  his  golden  hair, 

And  "Tommy!  Tommy!  oh  my  Tommy! 
How  came  you,  came  you  there?" 

And  sorry  Tommy  fell  to  crying ; 

Mamma  did  not  whip  him  then, 
But  said  she  would  if  e'er  she  found  him 

By  the  naughty  brook  again. 

And  so  you  like  my  little  Tommy  ? 

Little  Tommy,  Tommy  Day  ? 
But  don't,  for  sake  of  sweet,  sweet  mamma, 

Play  like  Tommy  by  the  way. 


FRED  AND  OLD  MAJOR, 


Little  children,  do  you  wonder 
Rosy  Fred,  the  laughing  boy, 

Dearly  loves  his  old  dog  Major, 
Finds  him  still  his  greatest  joy  ? 


FEED  AND   OLD  MAJOR. 


311 


See  his  whip;  he  would  not  strike  him, 
For  his  dear  and  honest  face 

Seems  so  meek,  and  too,  so  wishful,— 
Thus  he  has  the  softest  place. 


THE   FRIENDS. 


Such  a  nest!    Why,  little  children, 
Major  sleeps  with  pretty  Fred, 

Not  of  course  as  would  a  brother, 
But  beside  his  trundle-bed ! 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 


Again  we  strew  the  flowers  of  May, 

Again  we  bow  the  head 
Above  the  mounds  that  shrine  to-day 

Our  martyred  soldier  dead ; 
Again  the  emblems  of  our  love, 

The  flag,  the  flower,  the  tear, 
We  mingle  sad  for  those  who  strove 

So  bravely  year  by  year. 

Again  we  meet  in  humble  guise, 

Again  the  emblem  flower 
We  sadly  strew  'neath  May-day  skies 

This  sacred,  solemn  hour ; 
And  as  we  move  from  grave  to  grave, 

In  sadness  softly  tread, 
The  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  shall  wave 

1  n  freedom  o'er  our  dead. 

And  many  a  comrade  here  we  find, 

As  tears  bedew  the  eye, 
Who,  for  his  country  was  resigned 

To  do  and  nobly  die ; 
Who  left  a  hallowed,  happy  home, 

He  ne'er  might  see  again, 
And  joined. the  fight  for  Freedom's  right 

On  many  a  hill  and  plain. 

But,  Mother!  weeping  in  your  gloom, 

And,  Father!  gray  in  years, 
We  cannot  give  you  from  the  tomb 

The  son  you  mourn  in  tears ; 
But  proudly,  proudly  can  we  name 

His  name  among  the  stars, 
Who  fought  for  freedom  and  for  fame 

Against  the  Stars  and  Bars. 

312 


WHERE'S  MAMMA?  318 

A  cruel  war,  but  let  us  speak 

Of  all  as  brothers  now, 
For  they  are  dead  by  hill  and  creek, 

And  dead  where  willows  bow ; 
And  where  the  birds  from  morn  to  eve, 

'Neath  far,  far  Southern  skies, 
Their  little  rustic  carols  weave, 

Where  many  a  hero  lies. 

The  Stars  and  Bars !  the  Blue  and  Gray  ! 

O  Nation !  'tis  thy  trust 
That  on  this  sad  Memorial  Day 

You  honor  dust  with  duist ! 
They  were  thy  children  rashly  grown 

To  deeds  of  war  and  strife, 
And  now  in  death  they  are  thy  own, 

As  once  they  were  in  life  ! 

O  North !  O  South !  a  vein  of  blood 

Still  joins  you  heart  and  hand  ! 
For  they  were  brothers  there  that  stood 

And  fought  in  their  native  land! 
Oh  let  us  mingle  dust  with  dust, 

And  flower  with  fairest  flower, 
And  while  the  old  Sword  gathers  rust, 

Honor  them  in  this  Hour ! 

For  they  were  ours,  are  ours  to-day, 

We  claim  them  one  and  all, 
For  they  were  heroes  in  the  fray, 

And  heroes  in  their  fall ! 
To-day  is  theirs !  what  hand  profane? 

For  them  this  hour  we  keep, 
But  many  a,  many  a  day  shall  wane, — 

Our  heroes  still  shall  sleep ! 


WHERE'S  MAMMA? 


"  Where's  my  mamma  ?    Des  she's  gone ; 

Tan't  I  find  her  anywhere  ?" 
And  this  sweet-eyed  mamma's  darling, 

Looked  in  this  place,  that  place, — there ! 


314  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"Mamma,  mamma,  here's  your  Harry, 
Come  and  find  him  else  he  cry ;" 

But  the  little  three  years'  baby 
Could  not  know  sweet  mammas  die. 

"  Papa,  papa,  where's  my  mamma  ?" 

And  the  little  nightdress  trailed, 
Catching  at  the  bare  feet  peeping, 

Tripping  "  baby"  as  he  wailed : 
"Where's  she  don'?"  and  little  Harry 

Pattered,  pattered  thro'  the  hall, 
Pattered  in  the  dress  she  made  him, 

Pattered,  pattered,  that  was  all. 

Now  this  pretty,  blue-eyed  darling, 

Crying  "mamma"  all  the  time, 
From  his  crib  had  stolen  sweetly,— 

"  Des  he  fall  if  baby  climb  !" 
And  upon  the  floor  he  tumbled, 

Folded  soft  in  broidered  dress ; 
But  he  did  not  cry,  and  softly, — 

"  Now  I'll  find  my  ma,  I  dess." 

All  was  still,  for  there  unbidden 

Came  a  shadow  through  the  night, 
And  the  fairy  nursling's  mamma 

Lay  like  marble,  cold  and  white ! 
And  that  lover,  husband,  father, 

All  the  baby  now  could  claim, 
Took  his  way  as  one  who  wanders 

All  alone  without  an  aim. 

"  Little  Harry  !— How  to  tell  him? 

He  is  sleeping,  fast  asleep ! 
O  ye  Life  of  million  wonders  !— 

Harry,  I  can  only  weep!"- 
And  a-like  a  sylph  or  fairy, 

Baby-ghost  in  whited  'ray, 
Little  Harry  flitted  to  him,— 

"Where's  my  mamma,  papa,  say?" 

O  ye  Muses  !  paint  the  beauty 

In  that  sweet,  inquiring  look, 
Paint  the  baby,  lovely  Harry, 

Pure  as  lilies  by  the  brook ! 
"  Tan't  you  tell  me  ?  Where's  my  mamma?" 

"  Little  Harry,  mamma's  gone !" 
And  he  took  the  pretty  nursling, 

In  the  nightdress  she  put  on ! 


MY  PONY.  315 


'"  Tan't  you  tell  me,  papa,  papa?" 

And  the  teardrops  glistened  now, 
"  '  Tause  I've  lost  her,  darling  papa!" 

Darling  pa  can  only  bow; 
Baby  Harry's  heart  was  broken, 

And  asleep  in  pain  he  fell, 
Crying:  "  Papa,  where's  my  mamma? 

Where's  my  mamma,  'tan't  you  tell?" 


MY  PONY. 


"  My  little  pony,  ain't  he  nice? 

A  dappled  coat,  a  pretty  mane ; 
And  you've  one,  too,  I  know  you  have, 

My  little  stranger  sister  Jane. 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you  what  a  pet 

My  pretty  pony  is  to  me ; 
My  grandpa  gave  him  when  I  grew 

A  laughing  maiden  up  to  three. 

"  I  cried  and  cried,  it  pleased  me  so, 
I  cried  and  laughed,  I  laughed  and  cried, 

But  if  you'd  seen  me  ride  him  then, 
I  know  you'd  laughed  till  you  had  died. 

'•  His  back  so  smooth  I  hardly  knew 
How  then  to  ride  him  to  and  fro ; 

But  he  was  gentle,  he  was  kind, 
And  stopped  his  pace  when  I  said,  "whoa." 

"  My  grandpa  helped  me  ride  him  first, 

And  such  a  time  I  never  had ; 
His  tail  went  down,  his  head  went  up, 

His  heels  flew  out  as  he  were  mad. 

"  I  dropped  the  reins,  I  seized  his  mane, 
And  grandpa  laughed  as  hard  as  you ; 

I  cried  in  fright,  but  pony  reared, — 
Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

"  But  now  'tis  past  ;  yet  wait,  ha,  ha  ! 
My  pony  horse  was  made  of  wood  ! 


516  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

I  got  so  lost  I  did  not  think, 
'Twere  wooden  legs  on  which  he  stood  ! 

"  But  still  I  pet  him,  love  him  still, 
And  now  I  ride  him  all  alone, 

My  rocking-horse  that  grandpa  gave 
So  I  could  have  one  for  my  own." 


TOLA'S  BIRD  SONG. 


Don't  you  see  her  by  the  hedge-row 
Where  the  gap  is  in  the  wall  ? 

Tes  ?    But  look  a  little  sharper, 
She's  so  very,  very  small. 

And  her  name  is  Miss  lola, 

"Sweet  lola,  Ola,  ee," 
So  the  jay,  the  robin,  swallow, 

Softly  sang  from  out  the  tree. 

"Sweet  lola,  Ola,  Ola," 
Sang  a  little  bright-eyed  bird, 

"Do  you  love  me  ?  do  you  love  me  ? 
Ola,  Ola,  have  you  heard?" 

And  she  shook  her  tangled  ringlets, 

"Yes,  I  do,  you  little  bird ; 
Crumbs  I  give,  then  don't  I  love  you  ? 

Isn't  my  love  in  every  word  ?" 

"Little  Ola,  you're  a  darling ! 

You  are  good,  and  good  to  me, 
Other  girls  are  naughty  to  us, 

Sweet  lola,  Ola,  ee." 

"Mother  taught  me  how  to  love  you, 
Pretty  birdie  on  the  bough, 

Little  things  she  said  would  make  me 
Just  as  sweet  as  you  are  now  !" 

And  the  summer  bloom  was  on  her, 

And  a  daisy  in  the  wall 
Sweet  lola,  Ola,  Ola, 

Seemed,  she  was  so  sweet  and  small. 


MY  K1TTJSNH.  317 

And  they  picked  the  crumbs  she  gave  them, 

Singing,  singing,  singing  free, 
"Ola  fair,  we  love  you,  Ola, 

Sweet  Tola,  Ola,  ee." 

And  a  hunter  came  among  them, 

Paused  to  listen  by  the  wall,— 
"Hateful  hunters  come  to  kill  us, 

Sweetest  Ola,  kind  to  all." 

• 

And  the  man  threw  down  his  powder, 

And  his  long  and  ugly  gun, 
"And  I'll  never,  never  kill  them, 

Never  more  my  little  one !" 

And  the  birds  from  all  the  forest, 

In  the  peaoh,  and  high  oak  tree : 
"You  have  saved  us,  and  we  love  you, 

Sweet  lola,  Ola,  ee!" 


MY  KITTENS. 

And  one  was  black,  and  one  was  gray, 

And  one  was  white  as  snow. 
The  prettiest  little  playful  things, 

That  ever  a  maid  did  know ! 

The  mother  cat,  and  ain't  she  sly, 

She  watches  all  the  while, 
And  when  her  little  kittens  play 

She  seems  to  know  and  smile. 

Now  here  is  Black,  oh,  what  a  rogue, 

He's  got  my  spool  of  thread ; 
And  now  the  three  are  romping  on, 

With  little  Gray  ahead  ! 

And  white  and  gray,  and  gray  and  black, 

Oh,  what  a  roguish  three  ! 
My  thread  is  tangled,  tangled  up, 

And  what  a  job  for  me ! 

"  You  little  rogues,  I'll  teach  you  what!" 

And  like  a  romping  girl, 
Sweet  Lucy  gave  them  such  a  chase 

The  very  room  did  whirl. 


318  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  what  a  time!  Oh,  dear,  dear  me! 

They  ran  away,  away! 
And  he  that  led,  as  you  may  think, 

Was  naughty  little  Gray! 

And  they  were  Jane,  and  you,  and  I, 
We  romp  the  whole  day  thro'; 

And  Black  was  I,  and  Gray  was  Jane, 
And  little  White  was  you  ! 


LOVE  IS  LIKE  THE  RAINBOW. 

Love  is  like  the  rainbow; 

Hung  across  the  sky, 
Like  a  pretty  picture 

Where  the  angels  fly ; 
Like  the  rarest  beauty 

Ever  lover  knew, 
Like  the  stars  of  even 

In  the  vaulted  blue. 

Love  is  like  the  rainbow 

When  the  storm  is  flown, 
Like  a  pretty  maiden 

Blooming  all  alone ; 
Like  a  youthful  lover 

In  a  rosy  dream 
Like  a  spotless  lily 

Swraying  with  the  stream. 

Love  is  like  the  rainbow 

Hung  above  the  storm, 
Like  a  Grecian  maiden 

Angel-chiseled  form; 
Like  a  pretty  fairy 

Dancing  in  the  sun, 
Like  the  arching  anchor, 

Love  and  love  is  one. 

Love  is  like  the  rainbow 

In  the  dappled  east, 
Like  the  minstrel  music 

At  the  wedding  feast, 
Like  the  rarest  flower 

Blooming  on  the  wold, 


WE  AT  THE  BIRDS  SAY.  ;H!) 

Like  the  Highland  lassie 
Robby  Burns  did  fold. 

Love  is  like  the  rainbow, 

Promise  in  the  sky, 
Like  a  golden  meadow 

Spread  beneath  the  eye ; 
Hope  of  hopes  to  maidens, 

Balm  of  life  to  all, 
King  of  all  creation, 

Laureled  since  the  Fall. 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAY. 


"Whip-poor-will,"  among  the  bushes, 
"Chickadee-dee,"  from  the  bough, 

"Bobolink,"  sweet  bobolincoln, 
"Pee-wee,  pee-wee,"  softly  now. 

"Twit,  twit,  twit,"  the  chimney  swallow, 
'Mid  the  bluejay's  lovely  song : 

"Rat-tat-tat,"  the  harsh  woodpecker 
From  the  myriad  feathered  throng. 

What  a  world  of  birds  and  flowers ! 

"Mine  the  sweetest  'neath  the  eaves,' 
Said  the  little  plump  brown  swallow, 

"Poor,  poor  robin,  how  she  grieves !" 

"Mine's  the  best  among  the  tree-tops,' 

Sang  the  chickadee-dee  soft; 
"You  may  whistle  little  plover, 

But  you  cannot  come  aloft." 

"Better  still,  my  chickadee-dee, 
I'm  the  sweetest  of  them  all," 

Sang  the  high  and  cloudless  sky-lark, 
Said  the  goldfinch,  "You  may  fall." 

"I'm  a  singer  'mid  the  flowers," 
Said  a  bright-eyed  humming-bird. 

"You  are  pretty !    Who  can  see  you  ? 
Of  your  beauty  I  have  heard." 

Said  another;  "Yes,  you're  pretty, 
But  your  wings  they  go  so  fast, 


320  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Who  can  see  you,  little  hummer  ?" 
And  the  jay  went  swimming  past. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  joined  the  chorus, 
"I'm  the  bird  they  sing  about." 

"Naught  but  songs  of  silly  lovers  !" 
Said  the  crow  in  gleeful  shout. 

"He  steals  corn,  and  robs  the  farmer," 
Said  the  sparrow  to  her  mate ; 

"Always  quarreling  like  the  people," 
And  the  screech-owl  looked  sedate. 

"Silly  birds,  why  taunt  each  other?" 
Said  the  slowly  wheeling  hawk; 

"He  steals  chickens  !"  said  the  mavis 
Close  beside  the  hollyhock. 

"Stop!  I  say  this  silly  quarrel." 
Said  the  sad  and  solemn  owl, 

With  a  look  to  grace  a  jurist, 
With  a  sort  of  judge's  scowl. 

"All  are  pretty,  may  I  venture, 
Each  a  trait  above  the  rest ; 

God  has  made  you  in  your  beauty, 
Each  in  some  way  He  has  blest." 

And  they  sang  more  sweet  than  ever, 
On  the  flower,  and  in  the  tree 

By  the  roadside,  near  the  river, 
By  the  cottage  on  the  lea. 


THE  MONMOUTH  MAIDS. 


Oh  Monmouth  maidens,  do  you  think 

His  age  he  would  confess, 
If  Cupid  still  had  left  the  bard 

To  single  blessedness  ? 

For  every  maid  is  "sweet  sixteen," 

Till  Romeo  has  said : 
"Now,  Juliet,  I  love  you,  O  ! 

Why  can't  we  go  and  wed?" 


OUR  NEW  CHURCH.  321 

And  every  man  I  venture,  too, 

Forgets  his  "honest  years," 
When  he  is  seeking  for  a  wife 

Among  the  "heavenly  spheres." 

And  he  is  rich,  or  he  is  poor, 

Or  anything  to  please, 
When  he  is  wooing  Kate  or  Jane, 

Or  sweet  Susanna  Pease. 

And  she  will  shame  the  red,  red  rose, 

When  Abram  says:  "See  here, 
And  durn  me  if  I  haven't  loved 

Yoirsteady  more'n  a  year." 

And  there  beside  the  winding'way, 

The  tumbled  roadside  wall, 
We  hear  a  little  sharp  report, 

And  "two  are  one,"  that's  all. 

A  little  rule  that  works  both  ways, 

We  know  our  age  at  last 
When  busy  Hymen  with  a  string 

Has  tied  us  firm  and  fast. 

So,  merry  maids,  how  old  are  you  ? 

And  are  you  wedded  yet  ? 
I  pray  you  soon  may  have  the  chance 

To  pay  old  Cupid's  debt. 

And  be  he  rich,  or  be  he  poor, 

Tho'  old  he  may  not  be, 
With  pious  Cowper  let  me  cry : 

"May  I  be  there  to  see  !" 


OUR  NEW  CHURCH. 

We  gather  here  in  summer's  prime 

To  dedicate  to  God, 
The  new-old  Church  that  we  have  loved 

Since  first  it  came  unftawed. 

And  tho'  we  loved  it  as  it  were 

In  all  the  years  agone, 
Yet  still  we  felt  the  dear  old  Church 

Did  look  a  bit  forlorn. 


322  THE  LADY  OF DARD ALE. 

And  so  we  raised  from  out  the  heart 
The  widow's  mite  of  all, 

And  kindly  as  a  wedding  gift, 
We  gave,  tho'  gifts  were  small. 


The  little  band,  the  lowly  band, 
That  loved  the  dear  old  place, 

Were  happier  made  by  what  they  gave, 
With  meekness  in  the  face. 

And  then  the  bell  rang  out  no  more 

Upon  the  Sabbath  air, 
But  workmen  with  their  hammers  broke 

The  sacred  silence  there. 

And  riot  took  the  place  of  peace 
That  reigned  so  solemn  round, 

And  not  the  rich  old  organ's  tone 
That  broke  the  still  profound. 

But  noises  from  the  tools  of  men 

That  came  to  beautify 
The  dear  old  Church  that  still  we'll  love 

In  the  "sweet  by  and  bye." 

The  weeks  flew  on,  and  beauty  grew 
From  out  the  shapeless  mass, 

Until  it  seems  to  every  one 
A  passing  dream,  alas  ! 

And  now  we  gather  one  and  all 

From  many  a  lowly  shrine, 
To  offer  thanks  and  sing  our  songs 

In  meekness  half  divine. 

And  may  the  church  we  christen  now 

In  meekness  from  above, 
E'en  point  a  holier  path  to  those 

Who  love  divinest  love. 


And  while  the  old  church  in  the  new 
May  hold  its  humble  sway, 

Let  one  and  all  give  thanks  to  Him 
Who  gave  the  Sabbath  Day. 


MY  PLAYMATE. 


My  little  reader,  did  you  know 
My  pretty  playmate,  Lucy  Small? 

No.    Then  I'll  tell  you,  for  to  me 
She  once  was  sweet  above  them  all. 

We  lived  as  neighbors  side  by  side, 
And  she  was  good  as  good  could  be ; 

I  wish  that  you,  my  reader  fair, 
Could  say  the  same  sweet  tale  of  me. 

But  I,  oh  dear  !  the  cat  would  scratch  me, 
The  dog  would  bite  me  in  his  play, 

But  she,  my  Lucy,  like  a  flower, 
Did  bloom  and  bloom  the  whole  long  day. 

And  not  a  word,  the  kitten  loved  her, 
AndTowser  rested  on  her  knee, 

And  when  so  vexed  I  half  could  hate  her, 
She  said  such  pretty  things  to  me. 

A  little  sunshine,  oft  I  called  her ; 

And  when  she  drooped  among  the  flowers, 
A  little  wingless  angel  seemed  she, 

Not  made  for  earth,  but  other  bowers. 

And  then  they  took  my  little  playmate, 
They  laid  her  'neath  the  lilies  white, 

And  I  alone,  and  lost  without  her, 
Did  moan  and  wail  the  whole  long  night. 

But  yet  my  Lucy,  sweef  fair  Lucy, 
Still  lingers  near  me,  near  me  now, 

And  when  I  get  so  vexed  and  hateful, 
I  feel  her  form  above  me  bow. 

Oh  little  readers,  gentle  readers, 
O  love  each  other  while  ye  may, 

A  time  may  come  to  take  the  flower, 
And  leave  the  weed  beside  the  way. 
323 


324  TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

'Twas  thus  my  Lucy  like  a  lily 
Beside  the  garden,  garden  wall, 

Had  drooped  and  fell,  and  died  in  beauty, 
Sweet,  pretty,  pretty  Lucy  Small.  - 


MY  MOTHER. 

Little  maiden  by  the  stream-side, 
Do  you  know  how  sad  I  feel  ? 

Have  you  lost  your  mother,  darling  ? 
Do  you  hear  the  church-bell  peal  ? 

Then  you  cannot  know  my  sadness, 
Little  maiden,  little  maid, 

For  my  mother,  gentle  sister, 
Lies  aneath  the  flowerets'  shade. 

Do  not  linger,  do  not  linger, 
By  the  sparkling,  gurgling  stream, 

For  your  mother  may  be  drooping, 
Gentle  maiden,  while  you  dream. 


Once  I  wandered  'mid  the  flowers, 
E'en  a  thoughtless  maid  as  you ; 

But  my  mother  now  is  sleeping 
'Neath  the  starlights  in  the  blue. 

Do  you  mind  your  mother  darling? 

I  ?    Not  always,  but  sometimes. 
Oh  I  wish  they  might  restore  her 

To  her  cottage  'neath  the  limes  ! 

And  the  tears  came  on  her  lashes. 

Happy  maiden,  may  I  weep  ? 
Do  you  think  she's  gone  to  Heaven  ? 

Is  in  Eden  soft  asleep? 

What  a  treasure  is  a  mother  ! 

Little  know  we  all  her  worth  ! 
Once  we  lose  her  from  the  household, 

Seems  she  dearest  of  the  earth. 


BAB Y  DAY. 

Love  your  mother,  little  maiden ; 

I've  no  mother  I  can  love, 
For  they  took  her  in  her  sweetness 

Far  across  the  skies  above. 

No,  no  mother ;  can  you  feel  it 
In  your  artless  summer  way  ? 

No,  my  darling,  you  may  linger 
Thoughtless  even  in  your  play. 

I  may  weep  and  weep  forever, 
You  shall  laugh  the  whole  day  thro', 

We  may  bloom  and  bloom  together, 
But  a  mother  cares  for  you. 


BABY  DAY. 

Such  a  pretty,  pretty  baby  ! 

Do  you  wish  you  had  him,  little  girl  ? 
He's  a  little  wee,  wee  thing,  tho', 

Bald  as  grandpa,  not  a  single  curl. 

But  his  mouth's  a  little  rosebud, 
And  his  pretty  cheeks  have  dimples  two, 

But  his  teeth,  the  little  nuisance  ! 
Not  a  single  tooth  to  show  to  you. 

But  he  laughs,  and  such  a  pucker 
All  about  his  pretty  rosebud  mouth  ! 

Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  don't  you  love  him  ? 
Such  a  rosy  angel  from  the  south  ! 

Don't  you  think  his  name  is  pretty  ? 

Ha  !  and  I've  not  said  a  single  word 
How  his  name  is  Baby  Day,  dear, 

Little  wingless,  blue-eyed  bird  ! 

And  they  say  as  big  as  papa 

Little  Baby  Day  will  sometime  grow  ! 
Such  a  little  wee-eyed  beauty  ! 

Tell  me,  little  dimples,  do  they  know? 

Why  !  you're  like  a  tender  flower  ! 

Just  a  pretty  bunch  of  rosy  sweets ! 
You're  a  lily  pure  and  helpless 

With  your  little  baby  pranks  and  feats. 


326  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

Big  as  papa  !  baby  darling  ? 

What  a  fib  !  you  are  so  awful  small ! 
Guess  they'll  find  they  do  not  know  you, 

Not  this  baby,  Baby  Day  at  all ! 

But,  good  gracious  !  there's  the  school-bell ! 

Little  brother,  sister  Jane  must  go ; 
But  you'll  grace  the  sweet,  sweet  hour, 

And  our  cradle  flower  shall  bloom  and  blow  ! 


MY  FLOWERS. 


Here's  a  rose,  and  there's  a  lily, 
Here's  a  rose,  and  there's  a  pink, 

Harmony  here,  and  there  a  tangle, 
One  does  nod,  and  one  does  wink. 

There's  a  sunflower,  high  and  golden, 

Hhere's  a  pretty  crimson  rose, 
There  a  pansy,  there  a  daisy, 

Here  the  white  flower  blooms  and  blows. 

Here  a  tangle,  there  a  chaos, 

Here  a  lily  pale  and  white, 
Some  are  wooing,  some  are  wedding, 

Some  in  vines  are  softly  dight. 

Some  are  dandling  in  the  breezes, 
Some  are  stately,  cold,  and  stiff ; 

There's  one  down  across  the  corner, 
And  I'm  sure  he's  ta'en  a  miff. 

Here's  one  wilt  and  sadly  broken, 
There's  one  hanging  down  his  head, 

Here  the  chore-boy's  foot  has  crushed  them, 
Some  are  wilting,  some  are  dead. 

Here  a  bee  is  getting  honey, 
There  a  bird  is  humming  sweet, 

And  the  blue,  blue  skies  above  me, 
Shed  their  blue  beneath  my  feet. 

You've  a  flower-bed  in  your  garden, 
What  a  pretty  treat  to  you ! 


AFTER  THE  SHOWER.  327 

Watching  all  their  wayward  motions, 
Twin-like  flowers  amid  the  dew. 

Oft  I  think,  as  papa  told  me, 

Life  is  like  the  briar  rose, 
Flowers  and  weeds  together  growing, 

Thorns,  and  roses  white  as  snows. 

Come  and  see  my  pretty  flowers, 

You  shall  have  a  sweet  bouquet, 
With  a  pink,  a  pansy,  rosy, 

If  you'll  only  come  and  stay. 


AFTER  THE  SHOWER. 


How  black  it  grew !    The  sun  was  hidden, 
A  very  night  without  her  stars ; 

The  lightning  like  a  warrior's  sword-blade, 
Cut  all  the  sky  like  flashing  bars. 

And  then  the  rain,  with  peals  of  thunder, 
And  then  the  hail  came  pouring  down ; 

Ancf  then,  oh  dear !  I  so  affrighted, 
It  seemed  the  very  earth  would  drown. 

A  July  storm.    Oh  how  I  trembled, 
And  every  one  seemed  sober  grown ; 

But  now  how  calm !    The  sky  is  peaceful, 
And  by  my  flowers  I  stand  alone. 

Oh  ugly  storm !  my  little  pansies, 
My  crimson  flowers !  my  hollyhocks, 

The  naughty  hail  has  sadly  pierced  them, 
They  cannot  stand  such  ugly  shocks. 

My  posy-bed's  a  great  mud  puddle, 
I  have  to  wade  the  garden  path ! 

Oh  little  flowers,  gentle  flowers ! 
And  did  you  like  your  naughty  bath? 

No  summer  rains  and  you  would  perish, 
My  little  flowers,  you'd  droop  and  die, 

And  then  the  maid  that  came  to  tend  you, 
What  could  she  do  but  stand  and  cry? 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

How  clean  you  look !    How  fresh  and  lovely  ! 

How  sweet  you  smell,  my  little  dears  ! 
Oh !  there's  my  calla  lily  broken ! 

How  can  I  help  these  burning  tears  ? 

My  garden's  just  a  little  ruin ! 

The  violets,  daisies  tangled  up ! 
And  there's  a  soiled  and  saddened  posy ! 

And  here's  a  flower  with  broken  cup ! 

Oh  dear !  my  little  ruined  flower-bed ! 

And  bitter  teardrops  filled  her  eye, 
As  down  beside  her  ruined  garden, 

The  little  maid  did  sit  and  crv. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 


A  doll,  a  horse,  a  wooden  cow, 
A  coral  ring,  and  Jack  in  a  Box, 

A  little  knife  with  one  bright  blade, 
A  waxen  doll  with  golden  locks. 

A  little  cradle  sweet  and  small, 
A  pretty  neckchain  made  of  gold, 

A  happy,  happy  little  maid, 
Who  papa  says  is  six  years  old. 

My  little  chain  has  one  bright  clasp, 
But  papa's  has  a  great  gold  watch ; 

I  wish  I  had  one.    Oh  dear  me ! 
And  his,  they  say,  is  Swiss  or  Scotch. 

" Please,  little  girl,  may  I  come  in?" 
And  ragged  Benny  by  the  gate, — 

(For  you  know  Benny,  he  is  poor,) 
"  Yes,  little  sir,  come  right  in  straight!" 

"  What  pretty  presents!"  and  his  eyes 
As  big  as  saucers  shone  on  her,  N 

"Yes,  Benny,  dear,  and  do  see  here, 
My  wooden  cat  can  spin  and  purr !" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SUGAR   RIVER.  329 

And  all  unconscious  of  the  tears 
That  welled  in  Benny's  blue,  blue  eyes, 

This  happy  Lilla  showed  him  all, 
With  mingled  word  and  joyous  cries. 

"And,  and— why,  Benny!  what's  the  matter? 

You're  crying !  I'm  so  happy !  you, 
You  look  as  if  your  heart  would  break!" 

And  tears  came  in  her  sweet  eyes,  too! 

But  Benny's  ragged  sleeve  had  brushed 

The  bitter  tears  that  welled  so  fast. 
"  O  dear !    Here,  Benny,  take  them  all !" 

And  dirty  hands  quick  held  them  fast. 

And  ragged  Benny  bounded  home, 

And  little  Lilla  cried  and  cried. 
"O  Benny!  ragged  Benny  dear  !" 

Her  face  was  open,  sweet,  and  wide, 

"  I'm  happy  now !"    And  when  papa 

Heard  little  Lilla  thro'  and  thro', 
He  took  her  tenderly  in  his  arms, — 

"  Now  what  may  papa  do  for  you?" 

"  I'm  happy  now,  but  Benny's  poor !" 

And  ragged  boys  about  the  street 
Were  saying:  "  Benny's  a  home  now, 

The  gift  of  Lilla  fair  and  sweet!" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SUGAR  RIVER. 


Oh  come  with  me,  my  bonnie  maid, 

By  Sugar  Kiver  flowing, 
Sweet  Luna  has  the  scene  arrayed, 

The  winds  are  softly  blowing ; 
And  here  beside  the  milldam  wide, 

With  Eden's  fairest  daughter, 
I'll  tell  you  how  the  poet  tried 

To  name  the  winding  water. 

He  looked  in  Greek  and  Latin  law, 
And  books  of  broadest  learning, 

But  not  the  time  to  say  he  saw 
A  muddle  all  a-churning ; 


330  THE  LADY  OF  UARDALE. 

He  took  his  maid,  his  blushing  Muse, 
O'er  field  and  meadow  stealing, 

He  plead  in  vain,  she  would  refuse, 
And  so  he  fell  a-kneeling. 

The  bank  gave  way,  and  down  they  fell 

A-scrambling  in  the  water, 
And  ran  the  Legend  that  I  tell  : 

"A  bard  and  Delphi's  daughter, 
Went  wooing  by  the  willowed  stream, 

With  love  their  eyesight  blinding, 
And  when  it  seemed  a  youthful  dream, 

Stern  Reason  was  reminding : 

"The  flowers  that  line  the  shelving  shores, 

Unsafe  for  Adam's  daughter, 
A  love  may  blind,  but  ne'er  restores 

A  life  beneath  the  water !" 
And  so  they  died,  and  Love  aloof  : 

"I'm  Eros-king  the  giver, 
And  ever  'neath  the  sky-blue  roof, 

I  christen,  Sugar  River!" 


WINTER  LINGERED. 


But  Winter  lingered  in  the  lap 

Of  Eden's  virgin  Spring, 
And  in  the  even's  dewy  shade 

It  cropped  the  floweret's  wing ; 
It  chilled  the  lily  pale  and  white, 

The  cowslip  by  the  brook, 
It  sent  a  shiver  thro'  the  frame, 

The  shepherd  on  his  crook. 

It  sent  the  bird  to  southern  shores, 

The  swallow  to  the  barn, 
The  robin  to  her  sunny  home, 

The  lark  above  the  tarn ; 
The  flower  that  dared  to  bloom  alone, 

It  chilled  in  morn  and  eve, 
The  blackbird  in  the  cherry  tree 

Did  moan,  and  wail,  and  grieve. 

The  May  came  in,  a-Maying  went 
The  children  and  their  maids, 


WHAT  THE  OLD   CLOCK  SAYS.  331 

But  chilly  blasts  had  laid  the  flower, 

The  grass  with  tender  blades ; 
The  house-plant  bloomed  alone  in  white, 

As  mourning  dearth  without, 
Canaries  sang,  but  softly  sang, 

The  chore-boy  in  surtout. 

The  spring  had  come,  but  wfater's  breath 

In  meadow,  stream,  and  vale, 
A  general  disappointment  went 

A-sobbing  out  the  tale : 
"And  we  had  waited  thro'  the  snow, 

The  ice  that  bound  the  brook, 
But  when  she  came,  my  srala  Spring ! 

'Twas  winter  in  her  look  !" 


WHAT  THE  OLD  CLOCK  SAYS, 

THE  COURTSHIP. 

Tick,  tick,  he  whispers  tales  of  love 

To  milkmaid  by  the  bars, 
She  blushes  like  the  new-blown  rose 

Beneath  the  smiling  stars. 

THE  WEDDING. 

Tick,  tick,  the  white-haired  priest  is  come 

To  join  their  holy  love, 
And  down  from  out  propitious  skies 

The  angels  smile  above. 

THE  BIRTH. 

Tick,  tick,  and  smiles  a  pretty  babe, 

To  join  them  closer  yet, 
And  mothers  said  from  out  the  heart, 

Two  mates  for  once  are  met. 

THE   MOTHER  DIES. 

Tick,  tick,  and  now  her  aged  form 

Is  still  at  last  in  death, 
A  rugged  son,  a  faded  sire, 

Are  mourning  'neath  the  breath. 

THE  FATHER  DIES. 

Tick,  tick,  and  now  two  holy  graves 
Are  mouldering  side  by  side, 


332  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDA LE. 

The  bridegroom  of  her  earliest  love, 
And  she  his  lovely  bride. 

THE   SON  MOURNS. 

Tick,  tick,  and  by  two  graves  at  last, 
The  son  stands  there  alone ; 

The  world  is.large,  but  crowds  of  men 
Heed  not  his  piteous  moan. 

THE   SON  DIES. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick !  and  now 
The  graves  are  one, — two, — three ! 

The  same  sweet  skies  are  smiling  yet 
On  flower,  and  weed,  and  lea. 

THE  CLOCK  TICKS  ON. 

The  old  Clock  still  is  ticking  on 
Beside  the  great  hall  door, 

The  same  old  face,  tho'  faded  some, 
We  saw  in  days  of  yore. 

AND  IT  SAYS. 

Its  solemn  tick  more  solemn  still, 

Does  softly  say  to  all : 
"From  life  to  death  ye  all  must  go, 

The  fairest  flower  will  fall!" 


THE  DEAD  BIRD'S  NEST. 

They  came  when  Spring  was  rounded  fair, 

And  ripened  to  her  full, 
And  freshest  flowers  were  in  the  dell 

Beside  the  darkened  pool ; 
And  built  their  nest  anear  our  eaves, 

"Where  morning-glories  shone, 
And  all  their  heartfelt  music  gave 

In  wild-bird's  rarest  tone. 

The  little  nest  was  built  at  last 

Among  the  tangled  sprays, 
And  mother  robin  poured  her  soul 

In  springtime's  sweetest  lays ; 
And  such  a  joyous  scene  to  us ! 

For  near  our  cottage  stood 
The  gnarled  tree  that  held  their  nest 

With  rough  and  jagged  wood. 


BY  SUGAR  RIVER.  333 

The  tinted  eggs  were  seen  at  length 

Within  their  cradle  home, 
And  mother-bird  sang  sweetly  then 

Above  the  flowered  loam ; 
And  last,  we  saw  the  fledgelings  there, 

The  little  baby  birds, 
And  he  that  doubts  there  is  a  God, 

For  him  I  have  no  words. 

But,  strange  to  say,  a  tangled  bunch 

Of  worms  above  the  nest, 
Kept  dropping,  dropping,  one  by  one, 

Thro'  treetop  richly  drest, 
Until  the  little  fledgelings  found 

The  nest  to  be  a  tomb, 
And  then  the  parent  birds  bewailed 

Their  sweet  ones'  hapless  doom. 

A  nd  sadly  then  above  the  nest 

They  wove  a  rounded  cone, 
And  then  they  left  them  there  at  last 

Within  the  nest  alone ; 
And  mournful,  mournful  was  the  note 

The  mother  robin  gave, 
When  sprig  and  spray  were  laid  at  last 

Upon  the  tree-swung  grave ! 


A  MEMORY  OF  SUGAR  RIVER. 

When  Sugar  River's  mellow  tide 

Was  singing  of  the  Spring, 
I  wandered  lone,  and  sad,  and  lorn, 

Where  love  was  on  the  wing ; 
I  painted  scenes  of  May  days  gone, 

Of  childhood's  happy  hours, 
The  like  that,  grew  to  wedded  love 

Among  Idaliaii  bowers. 

I  saw  the  form  that  death  had  laid, 

A  lily  with  the  lily, 
And  though  the  spring  was  blooming  there, 

The  even  calm  and  stilly, 
My  heart  would  beat  a  coarser  tune, 

A  sad  discordant  measure, 
And  once  where  love  had  painted  June, 

I  mourned  my  long-lost  treasure. 


334  TdE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

We  sang  of  love,  the  wedding  came, 

A  thousand  blessings  falling, 
The  hour  went  by  a  rosy  queen, 

While  love  to  love  was  calling; 
The  birds  sang  here,  the  birds  sang  there, 

The  children  laughed  the  louder. 
For  I  the  bridegroom  of  the  hour, 

And  never  was  a  prouder. 

But  ah !  there  came  from  silent  halls, 

A  guest  that  comes  unbidden, 
We  knew  his  presence  by  her  form, 

Tho'  he  was  veiled  and  hidden ; 
I  saw  the  casket  in  the  grave, 

I  heard  the  falling  flower, 
"  O  what  is  Death?"   They  took  my  hand, 

"'Tis  Life!" — and  weighed  the  hour. 


THE  NEW  KNIFE. 


"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  new  jack-knife  ! 

A  birthday  gift  from  pa ; 
And  now  I'll  make  a  little  ship, 

A  little  ship,  ha,  ha  ! 

"  A  pretty  ship  to  sail  the  sea 

With  captain  and  her  crew, 
And  she  will  cross  the  bounding  wave 

With  precious  things  for  you. 

"And  I  shall  build  her  for  her  speed, 

Her  beauty  and  her  strength, 
And  you  shall  see  what  a  knife  can  do, 

For  the  ship  will  come  at  length." 

And  he  found  a  board  both  smooth  and  straight, 

And  then  a  brace  or  two, — 
"  For  you  see  there's  many  a  different  thing 

Ere  a  ship's  a  ship  to  you." 

And  now,  my  children,  mind  the  tale, 

A  toy-ship  grew  at  last, 
The  jack-knife  brought  his  genius  out, 

And  fixed  his  purpose  fast. 


THE  NEW  KNIFE. 


335 


336  THE  LADE  OF  DARDALE. 

He  cut  his  fingers,  spoiled  his  work, 
And  said  some  naughty  things ; 

But  patience  gave  the  world  at  length 
A  ship  with  snow-white  wings. 

And  now  to-day  his  loaded  ships 
Are  thick  upon  the  sea ; 

It  was  the  birthday  jack-knife  gift 
That  gave  him  to  you  and  me. 

So  find  your  taste,  my  little  sir, 
The  thing  you  love  the  best, 

For  every  youth  has  gifts,  I  trowT, 
That  rank  him  o'er  the  rest. 


THE  OLD  GUIDEPOST. 


I  mind  me  how  the  old  guidepost 

Had  stood  for  many  a  day, 
Just  where  the  two  roads  meet  and  part, 

And  either  slopes  away ; 
The  general  scene  to  right  and  left, 

The  rockbound  hills  afar, 
The  wildly  rushing,  tumbling  brook, 

O'er  many  a  jagged  bar. 

The  seldom  house,  the  barren  fields, 

The  meadows  far  away, 
The  gnarled  oak  and  apple  tree, 

The  robin  or  the  jay  ; 
The  sun,  and  clouds,  the  skies  above, 

The  panorama  all, 
But  still  the  guidepost,  old  and  gray, 

Stands  lone  against  the  wall. 

You  see  it  now  just  by  the  bend, 

A  little  to  the  right, 
It  points  to  Boston  forty  miles, 

The  same  by  day  and  night ; 
It  asks  110  fee  from  high  or  low 

From  lover  or  from  lord, 
The  little  dapper  spruce  young  man 

Just  on  his  way  abroad. 


THE  OLD  STONEWALL.  337 

It  points  in  silence,  but  with  grace 

A  parson  well  might  own, 
Is  ever  meek,  and  ne'er  complains 

For  standing  there  alone ; 
And  when  the  stranger  careless  then 

Of  all  its  work  and  age, 
Does  wonder  still  which  way  to  go,- 

And  falls  into  a  rage, 

The  dear  old  guidepost  looks  the  same, 

Nor  rates  him  for  his  wrath, 
But  with  a  ministerial  stoop 

Does  point  to  either  path ; 
For  long  since,  reader,  have  the  words 

Slow  mouldered  from  its  face, 
And  but  the  ghost  of  what  it  was, 

It  useless  fills  its  place. 

But  still  its  duty  it  has  done, 

Long,  long  ago,  may  be, 
And  who  shall  scorn  it  in  its  age, 

When  once  it  told  to  thee 
Which  way  was  right  thro'  night  and  day 

Nor  asking  fee  or  dole, 
But  kindly  showing  one  and  all 

As  if  it  had  a  soul. 


THE  OLD  STONEWALL. 


The  old  stonewall  now  covered  o'er 

With  moss,  and  weed,  and  briar, 
Holds  memories  sweeter  far  to  me 

Than  tone  of  softest  lyre ; 
For  here  beside  it  winding  down 

The  road  still  takes  its  way, 
Whereon  I  roamed  a  barefoot  boy, 

When  life  was  fresh  and  gay. 

And  o'er  the  wall,  the  dear  old  wall, 

I  clambered  when  a  lad, 
To  pluck  the  berries  drooping  o'er, 

For  all  the  store  I  had, 


338  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Was  what  old  Xature  gave  to  me 
By  road  or  winding  wall, 

The  dear  old  orchard  where  the  apples 
With  rosy  cheeks  did  fall. 

The  little  brook  that  held  its  way 

Beside  the  bending  road, 
Of  many  a  plump  and  rarest  trout, 

Its  cool  and  sweet  abode ; 
And  berries,  too,  that  grew  beside 

Its  rich  and  mossy  banks, 
I  greedy  took,  nor  stopped  to  think 

To  offer  dole  or  thanks. 

But  now  as  gray  as  the  old  stonewall, 

I  ride  beside  the  way, 
And  comes  to  me  thro'  memory's  tears, 

A  sweetness  far  away ; 
And  once  again  I  climb  the  hill 

Where  Kate  and  I  did  roam, 
Both  rural  lovers  careless  then 

Of  love  we  found  at  home. 

And  once  again  we  trip  along 

Beside  the  old  gray  wall, 
Beyond  the  gap,  the  pair  of  bars, 

The  tumbling  waterfall ; 
The  old,  old  house  where  no  one  lived, 

And  ghosts  were  said  to  roam, 
But  legend  told  us  once  it  was 

Some  dear  old  goodman's  home. 

And,  too,  we  crossed  the  little  bridge, 

The  sweetly  winding  brook, 
The  horse-path,  and  the  cattle  lane, 

The  rare  and  shady  nook, 
Where  love  as  artless  as  the  flowers, 

In  homely  language  told, 
Its  pretty  tale  to  blushing  maid, 

In  beauty  rare  as  gold. 

But  she  is  dead,  and  grows  the  moss 

Upon  her  gravestone  now, 
And  so  I  love  to  linger  here 

Where  flowerets  nod  and  bow ; 
For  here  I  won  her  as  my  own, 

The  dearest  girl  of  all, 
Just  where  you  see  the  gap,  my  friend, 

In  the  dear  old  gray  stonewall ! 


THE  SANBORN  MEMORIAL  STONE. 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  TO    MR.  WOODBUBY  SAXHORN  OF  CHEL- 
SEA, MASS. 


Once  again  we  meet  at  Weirs, 
Once  again  the  rousing  cheers 
May  re-echo,  echo  'gan, 
From  the  soldier  or  the  f reedman ; 
From  the  man  that  holds  the  plow, 
From  the  citizen  with  us  now, 
From  the  youth  who  love  to  see 
The  dear  old  Flag  of  Liberty ; 
For  their  fathers  gave  it  them, 
Not  a  flaw  within  the  hem, 
Every  star  and  stripe  was  there, 
Honor  and  glory  everywhere, 
Full  of  memories  as  of  stars, 
Full  of  honors  as  of  bars, 
Holding  for  all  the  right  to  be 
Noblest  sons  of  Liberty. 


But  no  need  of  martial  strain, 
Battle-song,  or  bard's  refrain, 
Fitting  emblem,  flag  or  spray, 
For  our  heroes  made  the  Day 
Stand  an  ensign  in  the  sky, 
Shining  like  a  star  on  high, 
Still  unsullied,  yet  to  be 
The  one  great  Day  that  made  us  free 
And  the  Flag  that  floats  in  peace, 
Shall  its  freedom  ever  cease  ? 
Can  we,  sons  of  valiant  men, 
Ever  wish  to  see  again 
Reddest  blood  upon  our  land  ? 
Never !    Let  us,  heart  and  hand, 
Say :  "The  war  is  done !    No  more 
Shall  the  red  blood  dye  our  shore!" 


340  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

m. 

All  our  land  has  storied  stones, 
But  New  Hampshire  proudly  owns 
One  we  honor  over  all, 
One  that  shows  Secession's  fall, 
One  that  sends  the  tingling  blood 
Surging  madly  in  a  flood, 
Rousing  from  their  peaceful  sleep 
Valiant  men  that  wildly  leap, 
Crying:  "Victory!  victory!  now!" 
And  they  fell !    We  saw  them  bow 
Not  till  death  had  laid  them  low 
On  the  red  field  with  their  foe ! 
And  this  sad  Memorial  Stone 
Tells  the  tale  to  mothers  lone, 
How  New  Hampshire  nobly  bled, 
Here  to-day  reveres  her  dead! 

IV. 

Ah !  proud  Sanborn !  ever  you 
To  forget  the  boys  in  blue? 
Sacred  shall  thy  gift  remain 
Of  the  battles  and  the  slain, 
Grand  Memorial  of  the  War, 
Saddest  ever  Nation  saw, 
Hemmed  about  by  muskets  old, 
Cannon  that  to-day  may  hold 
Old  Columbia's  Flag  on  high, 
Fleckless  as  the  blue-domed  sky, 
Still  unsullied,  yet  to  reign 
O'er  a  Nation  joined  again, 
That  nor  time  nor  war  shall  sever 
But  united  still  forever, 
Freedom  pure  shall  offer  all, 
E'en  to  Turk,  or  slave  of  Gaul. 

v. 

Shall  the  old  Twelfth  here  at  Weirs 
Rouse  the  campground  with  its  cheers ! 
Or  above  this  sacred  stone 
Shed  the  tears  that  come  alone, 
From  the  friend  that  saw  them  fall, 
Fighting  Lee,  or  old  Stonewall, 
Johnston,  or  the  maddening  host, 
By  the  sea,  or  on  the  coast, 
In  the  swamp,  or  on  the  hill, 
By  the  stream,  or  laughing  rill, 
Where  the  valleys  sloping  down 
Half  revealed  a  rebel  town? 


THE  SANBOEN  MEMOEIAL  STONE. 

Or  again  upon  the  height 
Where  the  foe  were  put  to  flight  ? 
Never!  never!    Let  it  be 
But  the  woe  of  Memory  ! 


341 


We  to-day  may  gather  here 
Not  to  wipe  the  falling  tear, 
But  to  join  the  songs  of  peace, 
Where  a  glory  more  than  Greece 
Shines  around  us  here  to-day, 
For  no  rebels  come  to  slay, 


THE   SANBOKN  MEMOEIAL   STONE. 


But  to  reap  the  fruits  of  love, 
And  the  manna  from  above, 
Sharers  now  of  fruits  that  came 
Thro'  the  smoke,  and  thro'  the  flame, 
One  great  Nation  !  and  one  Cause  ! 
Better  judgment,  purer  laws, 
Based  upon  a  Freedom  vast, 
That  thro'  time  and  tide  shall  last, 


342  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  a  Haven  be  to  those 

Once  our  brave  uncoiiquered  foes  ! 

VII. 

Ah !  from  sixty-one  to  five  ! 
Many  a  man  to-day  alive, 
Feels  a  shiver  at  the  dates, 
Feels  a  shiver  while  he  waits 
Breathless  as  the  old  Roll  Call 
Sounds  above  the  broken  wall 
Of  the  ranks  that,  one  by  one, 
Time  has  called  since  war  was  done, 
Time  is  calling  e'en  to-day, 
Till  the  veterans  old  and  gray, 
Find  their  ranks  depleting  fast ! 
Shall  this  union  be  their  last '? 
Sudden  comes  the  thought  to  all, 
And  the  teardrops  silent  fall, 
Warriors  bowing  in  their  grief 
O'er  a  page  with  bordered  leaf  ! 

VIII. 

But  the  Blue,  and  e'en  the  Gray, 
Still  are  fading  day  by  day, 
Till  the  heart  says  this  is  blue, 
This  is  gray  to  but  a  few, 
Till  the  one  has  blended  fair 
With  the  other  fading  there, 
And  the  one  with  severed  limb, 
Gray  or  blue  is  but  to  him 
What  there  was,  but  is  not  now ! 
And  together  may  they  bow ; 
And  the  other  has  no  arm, 
Still  their  gray  and  blue  may  charm, 
Arid  together  fading  there, 
Fading  in  their  dress  and  hair, 
Will  we  leave  them  to  the  Power 
Spotless  as  the  new-born  hour ! 


THE  LADY'S  CABINET. 


I  grew  from  boyhood's  laughing  hour, 

Unmindful  of  the  past, 
No  purpose  shaped  with  subtile  power, 

'  Twas  Hope :  "  '  Twill  always  last !" 


BESIDE  THE  GRAVE.  343 

An  aimless  lad  unschooled  in  art, 

I  grew  the  thoughtless  weed, 
Till  Poesy  laid  across  my  heaut 

A  purpose  that  could  lead.  .. 

This  precious  Book  of  Poems  rare, 

From  reasons  then  unknown, 
Seemed  speaking  in  angelic  air, 

In  seraph  voice  and  tone ; 
The  Goldsmith  sang  his  lovely  lay, 

A  picture  of  the  field, 
Where  rural  calm  in  holy  sway, 

With  Poesy's  lips  unsealed ! 

And  Gray  had  sung  his  greatest  song, 

And  Dryden  of  the  "Feast," 
And  many  a  fairy  tripped  along 

Where  music  never  ceased ; 
The  factory  hand  in  Eden  joys, 

Grew  drunk  in  Nature's  sweets, 
And  rosy  girls  and  Paphian  boys, 

Were  dancing  sanded  streets ! 

He  took  the  pen  to  soothe  the  maids 

That  danced  upon  the  green, 
A  world  that  goes !  a  world  that  fades ! 

With  golden  stars  between ! 
The  castles  now  all  rosy  'rayed, 

Monadnock  Mills  a  dream, 
'  Twas  now  a  poet  madly  played, 

And  reined  the  Muses'  team ! 


BESIDE  THE  GRAVE. 


My  wife  and  I  beside  the  grave, 

Were  bending  sad  and  lone, 
For  death  had  come  a  silent  wave, 

And  ta'en  our  darling  home ; 
The  crowd  was  standing  two  by  two, 

And  three,  and  four,  and  five, 
But  O  my  God !  we  say  to  you, 

"We  loved  him  when  alive." 


344  THE  LADY  OF  DA  EDA  LE. 

So  pure,  so  sweet,  so  loving,  mild, 

So  little  of  the  earth ; 
But  thou  art  dead,  O  angel  child ! 

And  holier  is  thy  birth. 
"  My  wife,  my  sobbing,  sorrowing  wife, 

Our  child  shall  name  the  stars, 
Sweet  death  has  ended  but  the  strife 

Of  earth  and  funeral  cars." 

"And  yet  my  husband,  e'en  in  grief, 

A  solace  comes  to  me, 
Tho'  death  has  turned  the  flowered  leaf, 

A  brighter  hope  I  see." 
"  And  Hope  shall  twine  a  halo  round 

The  darkest  death  of  earth, 
We  see  a  form  below  the  ground, 

A  soul  has  found  its  birth. 

''The  hindoo,  pagan,  buddhist,  slave, 

Have  turned  from  idols  now, 
A  something  mightier  from  the  grave 

Has  made  them  reverent  bow ; 
The  mind  is  so,  that  e'en  at  last 

The  blindest  eye  may  see, 
And  death  has  come,  and  all  is  past, 

Yet  opes  eternity  I" 


THE  OLD  BRASS  KNOCKER. 

Now.  children  dear,  'tis  the  song  of  the  knocker, 

The  old  brass  knocker  of  grandfather's  days, 
A  sweet  sad  tale  where  harshly  asunder 

The  household  were  torn  in  the  prime  of  their  Mays ; 
But  turn  to  the  picture  now  mellowed  forever 

By  the  gray  hand  of  Time  in  his  strange  lapse  of  years, 
And  a  home  like  your  own  so  dear  to  your  bosom, 

May  shine  like  a  halo  thro'  the  mist  of  your  tears. 

We  see  the  old  Homestead  now  mossy  and  tumbled, 

The  saddened  confusion  on  every  hand  round. 
And  the  heart  is  awakened  to  the  sweetness  and  beauty 

That  starts  to  the  eye  from  the  time-hallowed  ground : 
We  look  thro'  the  summers  and  the  hoary  gray  winters, 

We  gaze  on  the  past  with  the  eye  of  a  friend, 
And  there  shapes  in  the  mind  a  fairy-like  picture, 

Where  the  beautiful  past  and  the  present  may  blend. 


THE  OLD  BE  ASS  KNOCKER.  345 

We  picture  a  lover  and  rosy-rayed  maiden, 

An  artless  like  meeting  in  trysting-nook  shade, 
We  hear  "will  you  have  me?"  and  softly  the  answer 

Does  fall  from  the  lips  of  the  pretty,  sweet  maid ; 
And  the  picture  enlarges  till  faintly  a  cottage 

Outstarts  from  the  scene  all  bowered  in  trees, 
And  a  new  brass  knocker  that  shineth  in  beauty, 

And  just  on  the  door  where  you  could  reach  it  with  ease. 

The  Nation  was  new,  and  a  pioneer  country, 

The  houses  were  scattered,  and  neighbors  were  far, 
So,  closer,  e'en  closer,  the  wife  and  the  husband 

Might  grow  in  the  years  that  shone  like  a  star ; 
But  Time  moved  on  like  a  great  grand  river, 

And  neighbors  came  softly,  and  quaintly  said : 
"I  thought  I  would  come  and  try  the  new  knocker, 

To  see  if  my  neighbors  were  early  from  bed." 

And  so  the  brass  knocker  was  joked  with  the  cider, 

And  sharper  and  louder  when  the  butternuts  cracked ; 
"For,  believe  me  or  not,  they  tell  me,  and  truly, 

'Tis  our  very  first  knocker,  and  the  thing  is  a  fact ;" 
For,  reader,  the  knocker  was  new  to  that  region, 

And  the  brunt  of  all  jokes  it  grew  from  the  first, 
"For  the  knocker,  I  know,  is  as  good  as  a  horseshoe, 

And  a  cottage  that  has  it  can  never  be  cursed !" 

And  over  the  "pumpkin  pies"  placed  on  the  table, 

At  the  grand  old  "quiltings,"  and  "knittings,"  and  all, 
It  grew  the  one  jest  and  the  joke  of  all  seasons, 

And  was  banged  by  the  "fiddler"  that  came  to  the  "ball," 
Or  the  jig  or  the  hornpipe  that  reigned  in  the  kitchen, 

The  dance  on  the  lawn  by  the  merry-voiced  rill, 
And  he  who  comes  in  sorrow  and  sickness, 

The  collector  of  taxes,  or  some  other  bill. 

In  "haying"  the  knocker  was  taxed  to  its  utmost, 

And  so  was  the  "barrel"  with  cider  in  prime, 
The  doctor,  the  beggar,  the  friend  or  the  neighbor, 

But  the  beggar,  and  doctor,  they  struck  it  sublime ! 
And  bang  went  the  knocker.    "I've  come  to  the  quilting," 

And  bang  on  the  air  it  sounded  again ; 
"And  have  you  a  room  for  a  weary-worn  stranger?" 

And  the  new  brass  knocker  seemed  crying  in  pain. 

But  Time  had  been  knocking  at  the  new  brass  knocker, 

Till  "old"  for  the  "new"  was  writ  on  the  door, 
And  the  maid  and  the  lover  were  gray  in  their  beauty, 

And  Harry,  sweet  Harry  was  there  never  more ! 


346  THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

The  friends  of  their  youth  had  died  or  departed, 
The  new  scenes  were  old  and  covered  with  moss, 

And  the  weeks  had  made  years  in  a  halo  of  glory, 
And  some  were  the  gainings,  but  greater  the  loss ! 

But  hush !  there's  a  sound  at  the  old  brass  knocker ! 

"O  who  can  it  be  in  this  dreary -dark  hour?" 
O  household  of  peace,  and  of  love,  and  of  beauty, 

'Tis  the  Being  that  takes  the  perfect-grown  flower ! 
And  a  mother  is  sobbing  in  the  shadow  of  even, 

But  he  soothed  not  the  sorrow  that  came  to  her  heart, 
But  oppression  and  silence  in  a  breath  of  emotion : 

"'Tis  Life  we  call  Death  that  has  torn  you  apart!" 

And  the  tumble-down  house  is  the  wreck  that's  remaining, 

And  the  three  white  slabs  by  the  orchard  alone, 
Now  covered  with  moss  and  sadly  forgotten, 

Where  sings  the  sweet  robin  with  sorrowing  tone ; 
And  the  old  oaken  door  is  torn  from  its  hinges, 

But  still  does  it  linger,  the  Knocker  so  grand ! 
On  the  door  where  we  saw  it  in  the  hush  of  the  even, 

When  Death  touched  it  so  softly  with  skeleton  hand ! 


MY  BOYHOOD'S  DAYS. 

My  boyhood's  days  have  they  gone, 
With  scenes  I  cannot  recall  ? 

But  precious  to  me  as  a  dream, 
Is  the  past  with  its  trials  and  all. 

Like  a  fog-bank  over  the  sea, 
My  boyhood's  days  seem  to  come, 

With  a  mist  and  a  sweetness  I  love, 
And  a  dear  old  moss-covered  home ! 

My  hair  it  is  sprinkled  with  gray, 
And  the  wrinkles  are  over  my  brow ! 

O  Peace  of  the  past !  wilt  return, 
And  sweeten  the  bitter  of  now  ? 

I'm  tottering  down  to  my  grave, 
All  stricken,  and  sad,  and  alone ; 

But  comes  to  my  heart  thro'  the  years, 
A  voice  with  a  tenderer  tone. 


SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER.  347 

"O  voyager  on  a  dark  sea,  » 

Where  the  tide  may  ebb  and  may  flow, 
Art  tired  of  the  beauty  of  earth, 

And  care  not  whither  you  go? 

"Come  to  the  grave  of  the  one 

Who  made  you  a  being  of  earth, 
A  mother  that  loved  you  thro'  all, 

From  the  hour  and  the  day  of  your  birth. 

"The  grave  is  mouldered  and  lone, 

The  bushes  have  tangled  it  o'er, 
And  the  path  that  led  by  the  wall, 

The  sweet  path  you  see  there  no  more ! 

'•For  the  father  has  gone  with  the  mother, 

And  strangers  are  there  in  the  house, 
Another  son  and  a  daughter, 

Another  husband  and  spouse. 

"But  pause  by  the  grave  of  thy  mother, — 

Thy  father  was  buried  at  sea, 
And  there  in  the  tangled  wild-briar, 

O  think  she  is  waiting  for  thee ! 

"For  the  pure  mind  of  man  says  a  Heaven 

Is  far  o'er  the  rosy-lit  sky, 
And  there  every  household  will  gather 

In  this  beautiful  Land  by  and  bye !" 


SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER, 


Only  a  woman  so  pale ! 

Only  a  mother  in  death ! 
Yet  who  I  never  could  say ; 

But  her  sweet  looks  took  my  breath, 
And  hallowed  Vier  locks  of  gray. 

But  somebody's  mother,  I  know, 
So  kindly  a  beauty  she  had, 

For  none  but  a  mother  could  own 
In  death,  such  a  sweetness,  and  sad, 

As  she  that  I  saw  there  alone. 


348  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  Morgue  was  still  as  her  form, 
The  blankness  of  death  was  around ; 

I  sought  for  a  brother  now  lost, 
But  somebody's  mother  I  found ! — 

What  children  have  shared  in  the  cost  ? 

My  thoughts  came  there  in  a  flood ; 

I  painted  the  present  and  past ; 
So  kindly  a  look,  O  God ! 

And  this  on  earth  is  the  last  ?— 
Has  her  life  been  pure  and  unflawed? 

Oh  lover  of  rosy  days ! 

Oh  maiden  in  youthhood's  prime ! 
You  wed  her  for  love  of  the  heart ! 

Your  days  moved  on  like  a  rhyme, 
For  hers  was  a  love  without  art. 

O  children !  I  see  you  now ! 

O  home-scene !  you  come  to  my  gaze ! 
"O  mamma!"  I  hear  thro'  the  years; 

"O  papa!"  sounds  sweet  with  the  days : 
But  now  I  can  see  you  in  tears ! 

And  a  household  I  see  at  last, 
Where  death  has  come  in  between, 

A  father  so  still  and  so  cold, 
A  mother  that  is  poor  in  the  scene, 

A  mother  that  is  stricken  and  old. 

And  children  with  curly  locks, 
A  larder  with  crust  of  bread ; 

For  "papa"  had  left  them  poor! 
And  "papa"  was  many  years  dead; 

And  the  wolf  came  in  at  the  door ! 

Like  a  buyer  of  human  slaves, 
Grim  Fate  had  entered  the  band, 

And  "Harry"  was  led  from  his  home, 
And  "Lilla"  he  took  by  the  hand, 

Till  one  after  another  did  roam. 

And  the  mother,  mayhap,  left  alone, 
Now  friendless,  and  nowhere  to  go, 

Did  sit  in  the  loft  of  a  house, 
In  poverty  no  rich  man  could  know, 

Scarce  covered  by  a  tattered  blouse. 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE.  349 

And  sickness  came  in  there  at  last ; 

Her  husband  and  children  were  gone ; 
And  she  all  alone  in  the  world ! 

"O  God!  that  I'd  never  been  born!" 
And  the  sad  waters  over  her  curled ! 

And  now,  O  Power  of  the  skies ! 

The  Morgue  has  become  her  tomb ! 
The  picture  was  bright  as  the  dawn ! 

And  the  roses  were  soft  in  their  bloom! 
But  now  has  the  darkness  come  on ! 

The  heart  grows  sick  at  the  sight ! 

One  look  on  that  dead  cold  face, 
And  "a  Maid!  a  Wife!  and  a  Mother!" 

I  rush  from  the  horrible  place, 
Out  where  the  satins  may  smother! 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 


The  dear  old  Homestead  now  I  see, 

The  straggling  fence  around, 
The  little  barn  with  weathervane, 

And  all  the  hallowed  ground ; 
The  low-roofed  house  beside  the  road, 

The  wellsweep  by  the  wall, 
The  little  playhouse  then  to  me 

The  sweetest  thing  of  all. 

The  thousand  things  that  came  so  faint, 

When  I  a  lad  at  home, 
Was  half  unconscious  of  the  time 

That  soon  would  make  me  roam ; 
But  now,  while  wrinkles  on  my  face 

Show  faint  the  lapse  of  years, 
The  whole  scene  as  a  picture  shines 

Across  my  falling  tears! 

And  every  scene  so  vivid  now 

Comes  slowly  to  my  heart, 
Until  the  present  in  the  past 

Is  shorn  of  all  its  art ; 


350  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  homely  scenes  of  other  days 
Are  clothed  in  holy  calm, 

And  like  a  benison  from  high 
They  venerate  and  charm. 

The  little  schoolhouse  red  and  white, 

Is  well  remembered,  too, 
For  what  can  come  from  out  the  past 

So  sweet  a  thing  to  you, 
As  those  old  places  where  a  boy 

Were  seen  your  happiest  days, 
And  every  thing  did  bloom  and  blow 

Like  springtime's  merriest  Mays ! 

But  still  the  one  thing  dear  to  me, 

And  precious  over  all, 
Is  the  dear  old  yellow  Book  whereon 

The  teardrops  used  to  fall ; 
My  mother's  Bible  where  the  marks 

In  Matthew,  Luke,  and  John, 
Told  well  the  places  that  she  loved 

Ere  death  came  stealing  on  ! 

And  many  of  the  marks  were  made 

From  out  her  children's  hair, 
And  mine,  to-day,  among  the  rest, 

Is  softly  shining  there  ! 
And  brother  Tom's  and  Charlie's,  too, 

My  sister's  rich  as  gold ; 
But  all  that  now  remains  to  me, — 

My  mother's  Bible  old  ! 


THE  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE. 


Yes,  there  it  is  !  the  dear  old  place  ! 

You  see  it  now,  dear  brother  Joe, 
For  all  the  world  it  looks  the  same 

As  on  that  time  so  long  ago ! 
The  dear  old  time  when  you  and  I 

Were  ragged  boys  within  our  "teens," 
And  cared  so  little  for  the  "patch" 

That  showed  our  poor  old  father's  means. 


THE    OLD    SCHOOLHOUSE.  351 

And,  too,  the  brook,  where  you  and  I 

So  often  played  beyond  the  time ; 
The  little  dells  so  shady  then, 

The  ragged  trees  we  used  to  climb ; 
And  knotty  spring-board  where  the  boys 

Their  circus  feats  so  bold  performed, 
And,  too,  dear  Joe,  that  rugged  birch 

With  which  our  jackets  then  were  "warmed  I" 

The  little  hill,  when  winter  came, 

So  softly  hidden  'neath  the  snow, 
The  shiny  bumps  we  got  so  quick 

Upon  our  heads,  dear  brother  Joe  ! 
And  on  the  pond  where  shone  the  ice, 

And  sticks  were  placed  for  "tripping"  bars, 
And  when  we  landed  on  our  backs, 

How  brilliant  shone  the  "aching"  stars  ! 

And  in  the  schoolhouse,  full  of  fun, 

How  new  the  "wads"  from  side  to  side  ! 
When  you  and  Mag  stood  in  the  floor, 

I  laughed  so  hard  I  almost  died  ; 
And  how  you  blushed  !  I  see  the  room, 

The  mistress  looking  sour  as  sin, 
But  when  I  landed  in  my  seat, 

I  ne'er  forgot  that  well-bent  pin  ! 

And  when  the  boys  stood  up  to  spell, 

What  tremors  darted  thro'  their  looks  ! 
For  anything  was  in  their  mind 

But  a-b,  abs,  or  spelling-books ; 
And,  too,  how  sure  I  was  to  be 

The  last  poor  speller  in  the  class, 
But,  brother  dear,  you  know  I  used 

To  let  you  sometimes  kindly  pass. 

But  we  are  old,  and  cannot  be 

The  laughing  boys  of  former  times, 
For  down  the  hill  we're  bending  now 

As  sad  as  some  old  poet's  rhymes ; 
But  still,  my  dear,  dear  brother  Joe, 

A  holy  sweetness  comes  to  me, 
When  I  go  back  to  the  old  schoolhouse 

Where  hand  in  hand  I  walked  with  thee ! 

You  were  to  me,  as  even  now, 

The  kindest  friend  I  ever  had, 
And  when  your  goodness  I  abused, 

You  looked  so  hurt  it  made  me  sad ; 


350  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

But  up  together  we  have  grown, 
Till  both  our  heads  are  white  as  snow, 

Yet  my  affection  still  will  last, 
For  you  alone,  dear  brother  Joe  ! 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 


Lake  Winnipiseogee  lay  so  calm  ! 

The  mighty  boats  were  on  its  breast. 
I  stood  upon  the  wharf  and  gazed, 

The  grand  old  waves  the  shore  caressed, 
The  cars  were  whirling  at  iny  back, 

The  ships  were  speeding  out  before, 
For  at  the  Weirs  I  stood  alone, 

And  gazed  upon  the  grand  old  shore. 

The  crowds  were  coming  far  and  near, 

In  mighty  chaos  there  they  stormed, 
And  some  were  dressed  in  fashion's  height, 

With  scattering  soldiers  uniformed ; 
And  Hotel  Weirs  with  floating  flag, 

Rose  grandly  there  upon  the  view, 
The  Winnecoette  House  embowered  in  trees, 

In  beauty  rose  beneath  the  blue. 

And  farther  on  the  campground  slept, 

All  undisturbed  by  such  a  noise, 
And  high  the  Observatory  rose 

Above  the  laughter,  cheers,  and  joys; 
And  on  the  left  amid  the  trees, 

Orchestral  music  softly  played, 
The  "light  fantastic  toe"  was  raised 

By  modest  youth  and  laughing  maid. 

And  just  below,  the  gathered  throng 

To  eloquence  did  pay  respect, 
While  Bruces  talked,  or  Rays  declaimed, 

Or  lesser  minds  in  fashion  decked, 
Showed  powers  a  Cicero  to  trance, 

Demosthenes  with  art  to  thrall, 
With  "listening  senates"  wraped  in  awe 

And  Elocution  lord  of  all. 


IX   AMOXa   THE   LILIES. 


IN  AMONG   THE  LILIES.  353 

And  up  the  height  in  wilder  scene, 

The  "showman"  bellowed  long  and  loud, 
And  here  the  "giant"  propelled  the  mace, 

With  mighty  strength  before  the  crowd ; 
But  gentler  reader,  thoughtful  e'en 

Amid  life's  wilder,  busier  ways, 
Just  thro'  the  crowd  so  boisterous  now, 

A  thoughtful  mind  in  sadness  strays. 

For  just  beyond  the  loud  uproar, 

Three  gray  white  slabs  stand  side  by  side, 
Above  the  graves  of  those  that  sleep 

Thro'  ebb  and  flow,  or  hush  of  tide, 
And  undisturbed  by  all  the  noise 

Or  young  Ambition's  loudest  tone ; 
But  silent  yet,  at  peace  with  all, 

In  holy  calmness  sleep  alone. 

Oh  how  in  contrast  with  the  scene 

Where  Pleasure's  sports  are  rampant  round ! 
For  here  together  side  by  side, 

They  sleep  beneath  the  hallowed  ground ; 
And  unto  those  in  Pity's  garb, 

A  lesson  grand  is  brought  to  light, 
And  while  the  crowd  in  clamor  reigns 

They  paint  a  Heaven  without  a  night! 


IN  AMONG  THE  LILIES, 


You  see  the  rifted  clouds  above, 

The  lily-pads  below ; 
A  pretty  scene  where  tender  love 

Might  woo  without  its  woe, 
Might  tell  the  old,  old  tale  again, 

With  rural  sweetness  there, 
And  have  the  trysting  love-hour  when 

The  scene  was  sweet  and  fair. 

ii. 
Might  pluck  the  lily  for  the  one 

You  love  above  the  rest, 
And  tell  her  'rieath  the  setting  sun, 

'I  love  you,  love  you  best ;' 

24 


354  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  RDALE. 

And  she  would  listen  to  the  tale 
With  all  attention  sweet, 

And  like  an  Annie  of  the  Vale 
Her  heart's  true  love  repeat. 

in. 
And,  too,  the  lily  might  suggest 

Another  Love  on  high, 
The  rainbow  in  its  beauty  drest, 

The  starlights  in  the  sky  ; 
The  Home  that  shines  across  the  blue 

Where  holy  angels  are, 
And  diamonds  glitter  like  the  dew, 

Or  brighter  than  a  star. 


IV. 

So,  here  are  lilies,  clouds  above, 

The  noble  trees  around, 
Where  heavenly  and  an  earthly  love 

May  meet  on  holy  ground ; 
And  waters,  too,  are  sparkling  bright 

With  vying  light  and  shade, 
Making  a  little  dusky  night 

In  beauty  soft  arrayed. 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 


Fell  the  snow-stars  one  by  one, 
Flew  the  diamonds  here  and  there, 

Trees  grew  white  beside  the  road, 
Trees  grew  whiter  everywhere. 

All  the  world  was  pale  as  death, 
All  the  land  was  draped  in  snow, 

Little  birds  with  piping  note, 
Dusky  birds  that  caroled  low. 

Doors  were  open  here  and  there, 
Pretty  maids  with  prettier  names, 

Seemed  the  sweeter  through  the  snow, 
Lovely  pictures  in  their  frames. 


SHAKESPEARE.  355 

Hied  the  traveler  down  the  road, 

Ran  the  chore-boy  wild  with  glee, 
For  the  snow  was  hiding  fast 

Shrub,  and  rosebush,  weed,  and  lea. 

And  the  sun  was  blind  at  last, 

All  the  sky  was  hidden  most, 
Till  the  earth,  and  everything, 

Seemed  a  universal  ghost. 

Little  snow-birds  twittered  here, 

Little  snow-birds  twittered  there, 
Out  and  in  among  the  flakes, 

Out  and  in,  and  everywhere. 

On  the  treetop  by  the  hedge, 

Flying  near,  and  then  to  go, 
Like  a  dusky  feathery  ball, 

Little  shadows  in  the  snow. 

Dimpled  hands  as  soft  as  wool, 

Vainly  grasped  the  window-pane, 
Little  hands  so  baby  white, 

Pure  as  snow  may  you  remain. 

Thus  the  star-gems  floated  down, 

Thus  the  snow-birds  caroled  there, 
Till  the  moonlight  soft  and  pale, 

Gave  it  all  a  seraph  air. 

So  we  leave  it  pure  and  white, 

Like  the  traveler  turn  and  go, 
Who  has  said:  "O  lovely  Death, 

Life  has  made  me  white  as  snow!" 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Oh  Bard  of  Avon  !  may  the  strain 

Now  softly  sung  of  thee, 
Come  gently  from  a  storied  thought, 
.   As  all  your  songs  to  me ; 
For  mind  alone  can  picture  true 

The  love  we  bear  the  bard 
Who  sang  of  every  shade  and  hue, 

In  Nature's  lovely  vineyard  ! 


356  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Of  Juliet  and  Romeo 

You  sang  in  passioned  strain, 
A  perfect  master  of  the  art, 

And  keen  to  Love's  sweet  pain; 
Again  of  kings  and  courtiers  proud, 

You  sang  in  master  style, 
Of  love,  or  hate,  the  lord  endowed 

With  nature  coarse  and  vile. 

No  matter  what,  the  high  or  low, 

The  pictured  scenes  of  life, 
Thou  wert  at  home  on  every  theme, 

In  love,  or  war,  or  strife ; 
And  roughest  things  to  beauty  grew, 

And  won  immortal  youth, 
And  e'en  to-day  the  sparkling  dew 

If  critics  tell  the  truth. 

The  Jonsons  and  the  Bacons  great, 

Were  puny  stars  to  thee, 
The  Massingers  and  Fletchers,  too, 

Tho'  mighty  bards  they  be ; 
You  were  the  one  bright  star  that  rose 

Above  the  rapturous  world, 
And  where  the  warrior  minds  oppose, 

Thy  banner  is  unfurled  ! 

You  were  endowed  with  powers  divine, 

And  saw  the  first  and  last, 
The  Alpha  and  Omega  writ 

Amid  the  blinding  blast 
Of  sweeping  worlds,  and  chaos  scenes, 

The  tempests  rushing  by, 
And  why  the  Tower  of  Pisa  leans 

So  strangely  in  the  sky. 

Thine  is  the  second  book  of  books, 

Thy  mind  of  mightiest  minds, 
And  Nature  like  a  volume  lay, 

Where  occult  beauty  finds 
Its  perfect  essence,  and  to  all 

Does  shine  with  newer  light, 
As  when  the  angel  unto  Saul 

Made  clear  the  passing  night. 

The  Booths  and  Siddons,  what  for  chee, 
Had  been  their  earthly  fame  ? 

Macreadys,  Knights,  the  matchless  Keans, 
The  Garricks  with  a  name 


THE  BARD   OF  LEMPSTER.  357 

That  storied  Time  shall  hold  as  dear 

As  Raphaels  in  their  art? 
For  they  are  hand  and  heart  with  Shakespeare, 

And  death  may  never  part. 

But  Bard  of  Avon  !  you  wilt  stay 

While  Culture  worships  Art, 
And  of  the  Drama  be  the  god 

That  reigns  within  the  heart ; 
For  Sophocles  and  Homers,  all, 

Might  bow  before  thy  Shrine, 
And  like  the  flowers  upon  the  wall, 

As  flowers  about  vou  twine  ! 


THE  BARD  OF  LEMPSTER, 


How  sweetly  sings  in  native  strain 

The  babbling  brook  thro'  quiet  vales ! 
How  softly  do  its  murmurs  chime 

With  rosy  Nature's  balmy  gales ! 
How  gentle  and  how  natural  sound 

Its  murmured  meanings  still  unmarred ! 
And  thus  the  home-sweet  numbers  chord, 

Of  him  I  love,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 

How  softly  float  those  wild-bird  songs 

From  out  the  gnarled  forest  tree ! 
And  like  a  cradle  lullaby 

How  artless  sweet  they  come  to  me  ! 
The  lays  are  poured  from  out  the  heart, 

And  come  as  freshly  and  as  starred, 
To  me  within  the  factory's  walls, 

As  songs  of  him,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 

How  mournful  sweet  and  solemn  sad 

The  grand  old  river  sings  to  me  ! 
And  what  a  home-like  calm  it  brings 

In  softest  heart-song  fresh  and  free  ! 
And  saddest  waves  against  the  banks, 

Where  further  lays  are  gently  marred, 
Come  sweetly,  softly  to  my  ear, 

As  songs  of  him,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 


358  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

You  see  the  milkmaid ;  while  her  pail 

With  richest  milk  is  frothing  o'er, 
And  from  her  heart  there  comes  a  song 

As  natural  sweet  as  e'er  did  pour 
From  out  the  heart  of  artless  maid, 

When  god  of  Love  has  crowned  and  starred, 
And  so  to  me  have  come  the  lays 

Of  him  I  love,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 

You  see  the  barefoot  boy  alone, 

With  pants  rolled  far  above  the  knee, 
And  from  his  heart  there  comes  a  song 

That  stirs  old  thoughts  for  you  and  me ; 
And  just  as  natural  as  the  lay, 

When  home-scene  comforts  never  jarred, 
And  so  his  songs  have  come  to  me, 

My  kindly  friend,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 

You  see  the  mother  fondly  bent 

Above  the  cot  that  holds  her  all, 
And  from  her  heart  in  artless  wile, 

A  sweet  sad  song  does  softly  fall ; 
No  prima-donna  classic  trained 

In  accents  loud,  and  sharp,  and  hard, 
But  from  the  heart  as  natural  sweet, 

As  songs  of  him,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 

You  heard  the  brook,  the  bird,  the  river, 

The  milkmaid  and  the  barefoot  boy, 
The  lately  wed  and  holy  mother, 

And  what  a  scene  of  rapturous  joy, 
Where  everything  was  from  the  heart 

In  lowly  sweetness  gemmed  and  starred, 
A  n d  thus  to  me  the  pure  sweet  songs 

Of  my  true  friend,  sweet  Lempster's  bard. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

You  hear  the  laughter  rippling  down 

From  out  the  high  old  orchard  tree, 
And  all  the  old  gray  Past  looms  up 

A  sainted,  hallowed  ground  to  thee ; 
While  thoughtless  there  on  fruited  limb, 

In  rapturous  heart-song  full  of  joy, 
A  bare-legged  urchin  sits  and  sings, 

And  owns  the  right  of  Barefoot- Boy. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

You  see  the  barn  now  covered  o'er 

With  grayest  moss  from  eaves  to  eaves, 
The  rotted  boards  and  shingles  old, 

Where  fledgling  swallow  faintly  grieves; 
And  clambering  there  a  venturous  youth, 

To  see  the  birds  so  shy  and  coy, 
We  know  him  by  his  rolled-up  pants 

As  our  young  friend  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  see  the  cows  come  lowing  down 

From  out  the  pasture  rich  with  grass, 
And  Brindle,  Jane,  and  meek-eyed  Bess, 

Adown  the  lane  now  slowly  pass ; 
While  loitering  there  in  whistled  tune, 

With  none  of  Nature's  base  alloy, 
You  see  him  wading  thro'  the  stream, 

Our  rapturous  lad,  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  see  the  forest  fat  with  game, 

The  grand  old  trees  so  hard  to  climb, 
And  here  and  there  a  squirrel  gray, 

With  all  the  woods  in  cadenced^  rhyme ; 
And  here  if  ever,  perfect  peace, 

Tho'  treacherous  gun  would  there  destroy, 
For  hunting  game  with  father's  gun, 

Was  sport  for  him,  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

A  mimic  ship  upon  the  wave, 

With  sails  as  white  as  winter's  snow 
Goes  dandling  up  and  down  afloat, 

As  knowing  not  which  way  to  go ; 
And  there  alone,  knee-deep  in  mud, 

In  sailor's  twang  of  "ship  ahoy  !" 
You  see  a  young-eyed  urchin  stand, 

And  find  him  still  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  see  the  schoolhouse  by  the  hill, 

The  mud-balls  sticking  here  and  there, 
And  many  an  urchin  thoughtless  now, 

With  shock  of  red  or  tumbled  hair ; 
You  hear  the  bell,  and  in  a  row, 

Their  faces  smut  with  earth's  alloy, 
You  see  a  dozen  lads  or  so, 

And  know  them  each  a  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  see  the  barrels  strained  with  juice 
From  reddest  apples  on  the  farm, 

And  in  your  prime  you  pass  them  by, 
And  know  not  half  their  subtle  charm; 


360  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  there  alone  in  highest  glee, 
The  consummation  joy  of  joy. 

You  see  him  sucking  at  the  straw, 
Our  cider-loving  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  hear  the  Jew's-harp  on  the  air, 

As  natural  sweet  as  babbling  brook, 
And  all  your  childhood,  page  on  page, 

You  reverent  scan  with  hallowed  look, 
While  all  unconscious  and  alone, 

In  Music's  sweetest,  soft  employ, 
A  great  musician  yet  to  be 

Lies  buried  in  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  hear  the  drum  in  ponderous  tone, 

That  gives  old  grandma  such  a  fright, 
And  Memory  paints  a  battle-field 

Where  urchin  heroes  won  the  fight ; 
And  up  and  down  in  proud  array, 

In  native  sports  that  could  not  cloy, 
You  see  a  dozen  youngsters  march, 

And  know  them  each  a  Barefoot  Boy. 

You  see  that  grand  old  patriarch, 

A  holy  calmness  on  his  brow, 
A  sweetness  in  his  placid  look 

That  seems  to  live  beyond  the  Now  ! 
His  hair  is  whiter  than  the  snow  ! 

"All  hail,  old  man  !  we  give  you  joy, 
For  in  your  wrinkled,  white-haired  self, 

We  recognize  our  Barefoot  Boy  !" 


WATERLOO. 


Ye  saw  me  there  at  Waterloo ; 

Was't  I  that  struck  and  failed  ? 
'Twere  Dukes  and  Emperors  in  the  field, 

The  common  serf  that  paled  ? 

Nay,  nay  !    The  proudest  of  the  earth  ! 

Napoleon  that  bowed  ? 
Shall  lilied,  laureled  France  go  down  ? 

Cans't  tell,  O  Chief !  and  proud? 


HO  W  JOHN  WOOED  BETSEY.  361 

Great  Duke  of  England,  what  of  thee? 

The  Conqueror's  in  thy  path  ! 
O  matchless  Lord  of  War !  wilt  bow 

Before  the  Duke's  high  wrath? 

Hark  !    Brays  the  cannon  now  ?    Ye  gods  ! 

The  battle  roars  !    See  them ! 
Yea,  man  and  warrior,  foe  and  horse, 

Are  dead  !    Wilt  overwhelm  ? 

Yea?    Yea?  thou  warrior  King  of  earth  ? 

Or  dost  no  Fate  foredoom  ? 
France  !— England  !— Sways  the  mighty  scale  ! 

The  battle-field's  in  gloom  ! 

Oh  lilied  France  !  thy  Hero  pales  ! 

And  all  the  earth  his  Throne  ? 
O  Duke  of  Albion  !  but  for  thee 

His  arm  had  swayed  alone  ! 

The  battle  wears  !  O  warriors,  men  ! 

E'en  nations  watch  thee  now  ! 
Oh  Victory  !  why  so  shy  ?    Art  loath 

To  make  an  Emperor  bow  ? 

O  Isle  of  Elba  !— Josephine  ! 

Napoleon  !— England  !— France  ! 
O  Waterloo  !    O  Waterloo  ! 

A  mighty  Dream  ! — A  Trance  ! 


HOW  JOHN  WOOED  BETSEY, 
i. 

The  May  was  blooming  like  a  bed  of  flowers, 
The  songs  of  Spring  fell  softly  with  the  hours, 
The  time  to  woo  had  surely  come  to  all, 
And  honest  John,  a  farmer  lank  and  tall, 
Loved  Betsey  Jane  with  all  his  great  big  heart, 
And  she,  no  doubt,  returned  his  love  in  part; 
But,  dear  me,  little  Cupid  played  such  pranks, 
That  scarce  could  John  or  Betsey  give  him  thanks. 


At  last  when  May  had  deepened  into  June 

\Vith  birds,  and  flowers,  and  all  the  world  in  tune, 


TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

John  said:  "Now  Betsey  is  the  finest  girl, 
As  natural  sweet  as  all  the  brooks  that  purl 
Thro'  woods,  o'er  mosses,  by  the  pebbled  stone, 
And  'tis  too  bad  to  see  her  all  alone ; 
So  straightway  will  I  tell  her  of  my  love, 
And  all  the  stars  shall  bless  us  from  above." 

3. 

Now  Betsey  Jane  was  bashful  as  a  fawn, 

But  pure  as  starlights  in  the  dappled  dawn ; 

And  so  you  see  the  thing  was  easy  said : 

"I  love  you,  Betsey ;  shall  we  go  and  wed?" 

But  John,  oh  dear !  his  heart  began  to  thump, 

His  throat  felt  strange,  poor  John!    And  such  a  lump 

As  never  a  throat  had  known  now  filled  up  John's, 

And  danced  the  fays,  the  fairies,  and  the  fauns. 

4. 

And  John  was  standing  close  beside  the  bars, 
The  frothing  milk  was  whiter  than  the  stars, 
For  Betsey  was  the  milkmaid  on  the  farm, 
And  in  the  rustic  garb  there  seemed  a  charm 
To  John ;  and  out  here  all  alone,  away 
"From  whispering  tongue,"  where  crickets  piped  their  lay, 
His  love  should  speak,  and  be  to  Betsey  all 
The  world,  just  where  the  bars  had  joined  the  wall. 

5. 

But  she  was  waiting,  and  the  frothing  pail 
Was  not  as  level  as  the  crumbling  rail, 
For  Betsey,  pshaw !    How  could  a  milkmaid  know 
In  such  a  state  of  things  the  milk  did  flow 
Adown  her  apron  in  a  spotless  stream ! 
Wasn't  it  the  "old,  old  tale  of  Love's  young  Dream?" 
And  he  was  just  as  much  to  blame  as  she, 
And  she  was  just  as  much  to  blame  as  he. 

6. 

•'Oh,  O!  dear  John!— That  is,  I've  spilled  the  milk—" 
And:  "Betsey  !  dear  !— That  is,  I'll  dress  in  silk 
The  girl  that  says  she'll  be  my  wife  !"  and  shone 
The  stars  on  lover  and  the  loved  alone, 
And  blushes  vying  with,  the  red,  red  rose, 
The  whole  tale  told ;  and  John  in  all  his  woes 
Revealed  beside  the  crumbling,  half-down  bars, 
And  she  with  eyes  outshining  like  the  stars. 


THE    WAE  IS  OVER.  363 

7. 

The  pail  half-spilled  is  close  by  Betsey's  feet, 
Their  eyes  in  one  long  lingering  love-spell  meet, 
And  just  as  —"Betsey  !  Betsey  !"  rings  out  clear 
From  angry  pa,  up  speaketh  John:  "My  dear, 
Will  you  be  mine  ?"    He  fainted  near  away, 
And  she  blushed  out  in  such  a  modest  way, 
And  just  as  pa  came  out  in  tumbled  dress, 
The  little  pouting  lips  shaped  into  "Yes  !" 


THE  WAR  IS  OVER. 

Yes,  they  say,  the  war  is  over, 

Every  hero  wears  a  crown, 
And  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweetly 

Where  the  cannon  late  did  frown. 

And  the  brave  that  fell  in  battle, 
Owns  a  fadeless  laurel  wreath, 

Sleeping  in  the  soldier's  haven, 
In  the  trenches  on  the  heath. 

On  the  hillside  by  the  valley, 
In  the  swamp  and  on  the  lea, 

That  my  Nation's  precious  people 
Might  on  native  soil  be  free  ! 

Here  a  hundred  lay  together, 
Folded  in  the  arms  of  Death, 

Not  a  friend,  or  foe,  or  stranger, 
But  the  word  "unknown!"  he  saith. 

Ere  the  smoke  was  from  the  battle, 
And  the  stars  looked  down  above, 

Spades  were  making  in  the  valleys 
Graves  uncrowned  by  holy  love. 

Graves  that  never  saw  a  mother, 

Nor  a  sister's  falling  tear, 
But  the  eloquence  of  silence, 

"Yes,  a  hero's  buried  here  !" 

He  with  thousands  left  the  fireside, 
Left  a  mother  fond  and  true, 

Fighting  for  his  cherished  Country, 
'Neath  the  dear  red,  white  and  blue  ! 


364  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  to-day,  while  maids  of  beauty 
Dance  the  May-dance  on  the  green, 

These  brave  fellows  sleep  in  trenches 
Where  the  wild-flowers  deck  the  scene. 

Sleep  unknown  to  all  forever, 
Where  the  sun  has  never  shone, 

But  uncrowned,  and  still  unlaureled, 
Sleep  in  silence  there  alone  ! 

But  my  soldier  on  your  crutches, 
There's  a  link  that  joins  you  all, 

Though  you  live  to  see  the  flowers 
Twining  o'er  your  brother's  pall ! 

And  forgot  ?    No,  never,  never  ! 

You  alone  so  soon  forget  ? 
No  !  my  scarred  and  armless  veteran, 

E'en  your  eyes  to-day  are  wet ! 

And,  my  Country  !  don't  forget  them, 
But  for  them  what  now  of  thee  ? 

'Twas  the  dead  and  dying  soldier 
Made  you  free,  forever  Free  ! 


OH,  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Oh  Kobert  Burns,  my  brother  bard, 

Columbia  sends  you  greeting, 
Her  humble  poet  finds  you  starred, 

A  lover's  tale  repeating ; 
But  list,  oh  list,  my  plowman  king, 

No  lover's  tale  or  ditty, 
Unto  New  Hampshire's  bard  did  bring 

A  solace,  no,  nor  pity. 

Sweet  love  has  flown  to  Scotia's  isle 

Among  the  blooming  heather, 
And  so  New  Hampshire's  bard  may  smile 

At  love  and  stormy  weather ! 
"  Good  morning,  sir,  a  little  cool 

For  king-god  of  Arcady, 
But  love  has  often  made  a  fool 

Of  many  a  lord  and  lady ! 


THE  CEIA MB ER  OF  BRO  WN.  365 

I've  been  as  blind  as  any  bat 

Since  first  I  came  to  being, 
But  just  to  find  what  you  are  at 

By  faith  I've  come  a-seeing, 
They  tell  me  that  your  heart  is  free 

From  love  of  rarest  maiden, 
But  Burns  sang  sweeter  o'er  the  sea 

When  love  was  heavy  laden  ! 

"So  hearken  now,  if  you  would  hear 

The  secret  charm  of  poesy, 
A  youth  in  love  may  shed  the  tear, 

And  sing  the  faded  rosy ; 
He  feels  the  tale  he  tells  to  you, 

And  sings  from  native  feeling  !" 
And  there  I  stood  a  lover  true, 

For  love  was  o'er  me  stealing  ! 


THE  CHAMBER  OF  BROWN. 

There  came  from  the  chamber  of  paper  of  brown 

The  softest  of  cooings  in  all  the  broad  town, 

The  birds  paused  to  listen  from  field  and  from  farm, 

And  the  kine  in  the  stalls  of  the  summer-fed  barn, 

The  colt  in  the  field,  and  the  fair  kitchen  maid, 

The  corn  and  the  grasses  in  beauty  arrayed, 

The  rose  and  the  lily  that  grew  by  the  wall ; 

But  she  was  the  Queen,  and  the  queen  of  them  all ! 

The  curtains  of  morning  were  drawn  from  the  east, 

And  came  a  soft  music  that  never  has  ceast ; 

We'll  open  the  door,  and  we'll  take  a  peep  in, 

For  here  the  fruition  of  what  might  have  been, 

And  wonder  of  wonders !  all  down  in  the  bed ! 

The  rosiest  baby  was  sung  or  was  said ! 

Her  head  was  as  bare  as  her  grandpapa's  crown ! 

Her  voice  like  the  trumpet  that's  blown  from  the  town! 

Her  face  was  as  red  as  the  stripes  in  the  flag ! 

And  what  was  her  name?  Was  it  Daisy  or  Mag? 

A  snowdrop,  I  venture,  that  came  from  the  skies 

With  widest  and  broadest  and  bluest  of  eyes ! 

So  Snowdrop  the  fairy  shall  ever  be  named, i 

And  papa  and  mamma  nor  friend  feel  ashamed ; 

And  came  a  soft  lay  from  the  portals  of  morn, 

The  Queen  of  all  babies  to  Summer  was  born  ! 


366  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  the  household  was  happy  as  happy  could  be, 

And  music  as  soft  as  the  lay  of  the  sea, 

Came  stealing  away  from  the  portals  of  morn, 

For  baby,  our  baby  had  come  with  the  dawn ! 

And  this  was  the  baby !  and  never  a  fairer 

And  the  name  that  they  gave  it,  Was't  Daisy  or  Clara? 

But  the  choice  was  the  former,  for  reasons  you  know, 

.For  she  had  her  way,  and  the  Daisy  did  glow. 

SONG. 
Oh  come  from  the  east,  oh  come  from  the  west, 

Oh  come  from  the  Isles  of  Arcady, 
For  here  is  the  Queen  in  her  beauty  confest, 

The  prettiest,  rosiest  lady ! 
We've  given  the  sceptre,  we've  given  the  crown, 

We've  'rayed  with  the  rarest  of  flowers, 
The  prettiest  baby  in  all  the  broad  town, 

So  new  to  this  fair  world  of  ours  ! 


SUMMER  HAS  COME. 

And  March,  and  April,  lovely  May, 
Came  dancing  in  to  crown  the  day, 
The  vegetation  stirred  to  life, 
And  Winter  with  his  war  and  strife, 
Went  growling  far  across  the  hill, 
His  requiem  sung  by  ever  rill ; 
The  cowboy  whistled  out  his  tune, 
And  like  a  bride  the  lovely  June 
Had  come  across  the  southern  sea, 
The  crown  of  Summer  in  her  beauty ; 
The  March  had  softened  all  the  scene, 
And  April  came  with  smiles  between, 
And  May  did  deck  the  ground  with  green, 
The  rarest  Spring  had  ever  seen ; 
And  now  the  year  confirmed  and  fair, 
A  modest  maid  was  blushing  there, 
And  Spring  was  crowned  by  lovely  June, 
And  Nature's  harp  was  all  in  tune, 
And  bird  and  flower,  and  weed  and  rill, 
And  sang  the  brook,  the  mossy  mill, 
The  young,  the  gay,  the  bright  were  there, 
For  l;ife  and  joy  were  in  the  air, 
The  spirit  rose,  the  maid  was  chose, 


SUMMER  HAS    COME.  367 

The  rustic  dance  the  hour  did  close, 
And  flew  the  song,  the  music  there, 
Divinely  won  the  fairest  fair ; 
E'en  graybeard  man  did  dance  and  sing, 
His  youth  was  back,  was  on  the  wing, 
And  such  a  laughing,  rollicking  time, 
That  rhymesters  rose  to  poets'  chime, 
And  painted  scenes  all  lovely  'rayed, 
With  dancing  youth,  and  laughing  maid, 
The  mossy  dell,  the  sparkling  well, 
The  coolest  shades  a  bard  may  tell, 
The  very  nook  a  maid  would  choose, 
The  very  haunt  you'd  not  refuse, 
The  very  spring,  the  very  place, 
Where  fay  and  fairies  soft  did  trace 
An  ancient  castle  modest,  grand, 
The  loveliest  fields  in  all  the  land, 
The  prettiest  view,  the  sparkling  dew, 
On  field  and  fell,  and  violets  blue, 
And  perched  upon  a  rustic  throne, 
That  dreaming  lover  e'er  would  own, 
From  trimbrel,  harp,  and  horn  and  lute, 
And  many  a  maid  before  so  mute, 
There  swelled  a  song  from  Nature's  choir, 
With  mingled  tones  of  softest  lyre  : 

SONG. 

"  Oh  by,  by,  Winter!  by,  oh  by, 

Oh  by  by,  lovely  Spring ! 
Sweet  Summer  hates  to  see  you  die, 

With  birds  upon  the  wing ; 
But  Time  has  never  yet  a  tear 

For  any  of  his  throng, 
The  Seasons  one  by  one  appear, 

He  sings  their  parting  song ; 
If  spring  were  spring,  and  ever  spring, 

And  never  winter  came, 
The  curse  that  Adam's  act  did  bring, 

Our  fairy  garden  claim ; 
If  summer  never  winter  knew, 

And  autumn  never  died, 
How  bare  the  fields  where  flowers  grew ! 

How  wedless  were  the  bride ! 
Tis  change  that  gives  the  buoyant  heart, 

The  maid  of  laughing  een, 
'Tis  change  that  plays  a  various  part, 

The  Knight  of  golden  mien ! 


368  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  lily,  pansy,  corn  and  rose. 

The  plant,  the  shrub,  the  tree, 
The  rustic  vine,  the  flower  that  blows, 

The  grasses  on  the  lea, 
Were  soon  a  memory  of  the  past, 

If  change  were  never  known, 
But  He  that  shapes  the  gale,  the  blast, 

A  wisdom  not  our  own !" 


THE  VETERAN'S  STORY. 

"Yes,  Bill,  the  thing  is  over  now, 

But  somehow  you  and  I 
Cannot  forget  the  war-scenes  where 

Our  mouldering  comrades  lie ; 
I  know  the  years  have  twined  their  mounds 

With  many  a  fadeless  flower, 
But,  dear  old  Bill,  it  seems  as  fresh 

As  this  were  now  the  hour. 

"Don't  mind  the  tear.    I  saw  them  fall 

With  sword,  and  gun,  and  shell, 
No  parting  word,  no  holy  prayer, 

No  mother's  sad  farewell; 
They  fell  about  me  as  the  grain 

Before  the  reaper's  blade ; 
But  do  you  think,  dear  Veteran  Bill, 

Their  valorous  deeds  can  fade  ? 

"My  hair  is  gray,  my  wounds  are  healed, 

The  scar  is  all  remains ; 
But,  Bill,  you  know  no  crime  to-c'ay 

Our  dear-bought  honor  stains '. 
We  volunteered ;  and  when  we  left 

The  father  bowed  in  years, 
The  dear  old  mother  broken  down, 

We  could  not  help  the  tears. 

"And  when  we  marched  in  proud  array 

Beneath  the  dear  old  Flag  ! 
How  little  thought  we,  brother  Bill, 

'Twould  float  a  tattered  rag ! 
That  we  should  see  it  drenched  in  blood, 

With  slits  across  the  bars, 
And  bullet-holes  as  thick  as  hail 

Among  the  dear  old  stars  ? 


HIS  WEDDING  HOSE. 

"The  bard  may  sing  his  songs  for  us, 

And  paint  the  battle-field, 
He  cannot  know  what  warfare  means, 

The  brave  that  did  not  yield ; 
'Tis  you  and  I,  dear  Comrade  Bill, 

That  know  these  bloody  days, 
What  battle  means,  and  blood-shed  is, 

To  see  the  muskets  blaze  ! 

"To  meet  the  cannon  face  to  face, 

To  storm  the  high  redoubt, 
To  club  the  musket,  charge  the  foe,— 

O  Bill !  and  hear  the  shout 
Of  maddened  heroes  wading  through 

A  wicked  field  of  blood, 
Till  pale  in  death  they  silent  lay 

Where  late  they  bravely  stood  ! 

"But  war  is  madness,  still  I  know, 

Though  you  and  I  are  gray, 
We  could  not  see  the  dear  old  Flag 

Dishonored  in  our  day ! 
But  all  is  past ;  and  you  and  I 

Are  going  down  the  hill ; 
But  memory  makes  it  hallowed  yet 

To  Veteran  Tom  and  Bill !" 


HIS  WEDDING  ROSE. 

"  Oh  pretty  rose  !  oh  lovely  rose! 
Such  crimson  beauties  you  disclose, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  You  look  so  pretty  in  your  bower, 
You  are  so  modest,  little  flower, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  I  pluck  you  now  from  out  the  thorn, 
The  fairest  rose  was  ever  born, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  And  she  will  be  my  wedded  bride, 
The  rose  and  I  for  her  had  died, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 
25 


370  THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

"  And  drew  the  hour,  and  fell  the  e'en, 
And  she  the  fairest  e'er  was  seen, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  She  wore  the  rose  upon  her  breast, 
Both  mated  beauties  there  confest, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  O  emblem  Rose  !  O  angel  Rose  ! 
Unbidden  tear  that  gently  flows, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  They  put  the  rose  upon  her  breast, 
For  death  was  there  a  silent  guest  ! 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  He  came  and  swept  her  in  her  beauty  ! 
O  lover's  heart,  and  was  it  duty  ? 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

"  O  Doubt,  O  Faith  !  O  Faith,  O  Doubt ! 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  went  out ! 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you  !" 


His  reason  left  its  laureled  throne, 
His  voice  was  wilder  in  its  tone, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

And  like  a  dirge  the  burthen  fell, 
Tho'  funeral,  passing,  wedding  bell, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

They  bound  him  there  with  iron  bands, 
They  tied  his  long  and  classic  hands, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

They  bore  him  to  the  madman's  cell, 
The  wedding  tale  in  sadness  fell, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

And  thro'  the  grate  they  heard  him  say : 
"  O  angel  Rose,  my  wedding  Day  ! 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you  ! 

"And  she  will  come  with  rose  and  flower  ! 
The  Rose  and  she  will  crown  the  hour  ! 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you  !" 

They  heard  him  rave  in  eve  of  day, 
(The  shadows  round  his  cell  did  play,) 
"  Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you." 


THE  BUTTERFLY.  371 

And  other  lovers  thro'  the  night 
Heard  sounding  there  in  pale  moon  light, 
" Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you!" 

The  grass  was  green  upon  her  mound. 
The  latest  watcher  heard  the  sound, — 
"  Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you !" 

A  little  rose  beside  his  cell  . 
Did  grow  and  bloom,  had  died  and  fell, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

And  now  the  mounds  are  side  by  side, 
The  bridegroom  and  his  lovely  bride, 
Maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you. 

They  lived  and  loved,  to-day  are  dead, 
The  roses  there  are  meekly  wed ; 

But  "maids  may  love  you,  maids  may  love  you!" 
Yet  haunts  the  place  where  flowers  bloom 
And  bear  the  burthen  of  their  doom ! 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 


Like  a  speck  of  sunshine 
Flits  the  butterfly ; 

Like  a  little  cloudlet 
Hung  up  in  the  sky. 

ii. 
Winging  o'er  the  children 

Like  a  winged  flower ; 
Form  of  fairest  beauty 

In  the  summer  hour. 

in. 
See  the  children  watch  it 

From  the  flowery  ground ; 
Winged  bit  of  sunshine 

Circling  round  and  round. 

IV. 

Would  they  like  to  catch  it, 
Such  a  pretty  thing, 

With  its  myriad  colors, 
And  bespangled  wing? 


372 


THE  LADY  OF  DA  1WALE. 


Yes,  for  all  the  flowers 

In  the  little  hat, 
Did  his  hands  not  catch  them, 

Hands  so  chubby  fat  ? 


THE   BUTTERFLY. 


VI. 

So  my  little  wanderer 
Heed  those  chubby  hands, 

Else  your  wing  is  drabbled 
In  the  gritty  sands ! 


WHAT  MRS.   GREGOR  SAID. 


Fort  Sumpter  !    And  I  shiver  when  I  think ; — 
The  years  have  gone ;  but  still  remains  the  link 
That  joins  my  tired  old  heart  to  things  that  were, 
When  war-clouds  hovered,  and  my  thoughts  of  her 
Made  wet  these  eyes  where  glasses  lend  them  sight ; 
And  he  so  pale,  and  she  so  calm  and  white ! 
Oh  dear!  I  know  'tis  past;  but,  mother!  say, 
Can  you  forget  that  dark  and  bloody  day 
When  Harry,  Henry,  Jim,  or  Ben  went  down 
The  street ;  and  left  their  dear  old  native  town 
To  risk  their  lives  in  battle  for  the  sake 
Of  Country  !    Daring  tortures  of  the  stake, 
The  Libby  prisons,  facing  shot  and  shell, 
The  cannon's  mouth,  and,  bidding  life  farewell, 
To  death  in  trenches  going  bravely  down, 
With  you  and  I  no  thought  that  bronzed  and  brown, 
Our  boy  was  weltering  in  his  blood  ;  no  more 
To  glad  a  mother's  heart ;  but  on  a  shore 
Where  hostile  foe  was  thirsting  for  his  blood, 
In  misery  dying,  dying  where  he  stood, 
Beneath  the  proud  old  Flag  that  rose  in  might, 
And  spread  the  word  of  "Victory!"  to  the  light!  - 
Then  you  are  crying  !    Stop !    The  people  say 
The  war  is  done ;  yet  you  and  I  may  pray 
For  him  we  gave  to  make  our  Nation  free. 
And  crown  the  glorious  Cause  with  Liberty ! 
I  know  I  falter.    You  as  well  as  I 
Can  see  a  picture  'neath  a  southern  sky, 
That  only  mothers  know,  and  you  can  paint 
The  babe  you  reared  in  love,  half  naked,  faint, 
Nor  crumb,  nor  morsel,  but  the  sentry's  frown, 
His  bitter  oath,  and  we  in  native  town, 
Their  mothers,  and  so  powerless  to  do ; 
Our  bins  were  full.    O  Mrs.  Brown !  can  you 
Forget?    I  know  the  proud  world  thinks  me  strange ; 
But,  son  and  father,  both  have  left  the  Grange! 
The  father  sleeps  beneath  the  white  shaft  there, 
And,  Charlie ! — Mrs.  Brown,  I  know  not  where ! 

373 


374  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  RDALE. 

They  tell  me  he  was  bravest  of  the  brave, 

And  tho'  unknown,  he  fills  a  hero's  grave ! 

This  makes  me  proud,  but  could  I  know  just  where 

They  laid  him  that  I  might  one  flower  plant  there, 

A  silent  tear  let  fall,  then  I  should  be 

A  bit  content ;  but,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  see 

No  hope,  for  there  "unknown,  unknown,  unknown  !" 

In  solemn  line  stretch  'neath  the  eye,  no  stone, 

No  mound ;  a  ragged  stick  is  all  to  tell 

That  here,  or  near,  a  hero  fought  and  fell  ! 

And  was  he  yours  or  mine  ?    I  get  confused ; 

But,  Mrs,  Brown,  I  would  not  be  accused 

Of  saying  that  I  go  from  truth.    'Tis  you 

That  had  a  son  fall  'neath  the  red  and  blue, 

There  was  no  white,  they  dyed  it  with  their  blood, 

From  wounds,  wide  wounds,  that  gaped  with  sand  and  mud: 

And  «hf,  poor  girl !  like  many  thousand  more, 

She  let  him  go.    Of  his  true  love  she  wore 

A  little  emblem  band,  a  ring  of  gold  !— 

O,  Mrs.  Brown  !  I  saw  my  Charlie  fold 

Her  fainting  form  within  his  manly  arms, 

And  kiss  forever  her  white  lips  !    The  charms 

Of  new  first  love !    He  left  her !    On  his  back 

The  knapsack  hung.    How  hallowed  shone  the  track 

Beside  the  garden  gate  where  ivies  twined, 

And  flowers  bloomed.    The  hope  of  love  resigned ! 

The  beauty  of  a  trusting  heart !    She  rose, 

And:  "Charlie  Gregor!  go  and  meet  your  foes!" 

Mary  was  deathly  white.    She  swung  the  gate : 

"I'd  wed  a  hero !    Love  that  cannot  wait, 

Is  else  than  love !    This  little  golden  band 

You,  Charlie,  placed  with  love-words  on  my  hand ; 

And  both  unsullied  shall  await  return 

Of  bridegroom  soldier !    Go!"    "But  death  may  turn 

The  scales,  and  waiting  Mary  wait  in  vain !" — 

And,  Mrs.  Brown,  the  tears  fell  down  like  rain! 

But  Charlie  went.    The  war-news  came.    A  year 

Had  slipped  away,  with  hope,  and  love,  and  fear, 

And  Mary  waited,  but  the  little  band 

In  holy  beauty  shone  upon  her  hand ! 

The  letters  came.    But,  Mrs.  Brown,  at  last 

They  stopped  forever !  And  the  dear  girl  cast 

Herself  upon  the  lounge,  and  wept.    Then  came 

A  letter  from  a  friend.    "  'Mid  smoke  and  flame 

I  saw  him  fall,"  it  read;  "a  hero  true 

As  ever  fought  beneath  th'  red,  white  and  blue ! 

I  tried  to  find  him  when  the  battle  cleared, 

For  e'en  in  death,  I  knew  he  was  endeared 


THE  FLUSH  OF  THE  MORNING.  375 

To  you  and  her!    But  all  in  vain.    'Unknown' 

Is  all  a  friend  can  say !"    And  she  alone 

With  all  her  great  big  love  went  to  the  gate 

Where  two  years  since,  she  left  my  boy,  her  mate ! 

And  there,  O  Mrs.  Brown !  she  waited  lone, 

A  flower  among  the  flowers,  till  night  had  thrown 

Her  dusky  veil  across  the  wold,  and  stars 

Looked  down  from  out  the  blue  with  great  broad  bars 

Of  light  among  the  trees.    The  great  white  moon 

Smiling  on  her  face,  and  his  unknown  tomb  !— 

Yes,  yes,  the  tears  will  come.    I  know  they  say 

'Tis  over  now.    Can  you  forget  the  Day  ?— 

And  she !    The  months  went  by.    The  golden  band 

That  he  had  placed,  was  yet  upon  her  hand  !— 

And  when  she  lay  within  her  casket,  flower 

Of  "Love  lies  Bleeding"  in  her  hand,  the  hour 

Too  bitter  seemed  to  bear,  and  heart-rung  tears 

Fell  there  upon  her  face !    The  volunteers 

Were  kin  to  kin  in  death,  the  hero,  brave ! 

And  all  that  fill  the  valorous  soldier's  grave ! 

They  sleep,  but  not  as  lovers  side  by  side, 

But  each  from  each  with  valleys  stretching  wide ; 

And  he  among  the  brave  the  unforgotten  Band! 

And  she  unwed,  the  wedding  ring  upon  her  hand ! 


THE  FLUSH  OF  THE  MORNING. 


The  flush  of  the  morning 

Was  on  her  fair  cheek, 
But  love  that  he  bore  her 

Xo  voice  that  would  speak ; 
He  loved  her  in  beauty 

When  life  was  in  bloom, 
But  a  dread  filled  his  bosom 

That  seemed  like  the  tomb. 

They  played  in  their  childhood 

By  stream  and  by  vale, 
But  love  like  a  burden, 

With  cargo  and  sail, 
Hung  heavy  around  him, 

And  weighed  on  his  tongue, 
And  years  seemed  as  ages, 

Where  funerals  were  rung. 


376  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  came  a  fair  morrow 

When  love  was  in  bloom, 
They  wandered  together 

Where   mound  and  where  torn 
At  least  to  the  lover 

So  seemed  the  whole  route, 
But  Cupid  grew  bolder 

And  rose  with  a  shout. 

"Oh  Maid  of  the  Mona, 

My  thought  is  of  thee, 
You  seem  to  me  stately 

As  ships  of  the  sea, 
And  love  turns  a  doubter, 

And  fills  me  with  dread, 
And  life  seems  so  weary, 

I  would  I  were  dead !" 

"  O  Leon,  my  lover! 

Why  should  you  despair, 
When  love  comes  unbidden 

With  wreaths  in  his  hair? 
I  love  you,  my  Mona, 

Is  easy  to  say 
As  bird  on  the  treetop 

To  sing  out  his  lay." 

"Oh  Mona !  you  tease  me, 

And  vex  me  for  aye ; 
But  Mona,  I  love  you, 

Shall  love  you  alway ; 
I  would  to  the  altar 

Now  lead  you  a  bride, 
But  love  makes  me  falter, 

And  sway  with  the  tide." 

"  Then  by,  oh  bye,  darling, 

For  Mona  must  part, 
From  Leon  her  lover 

With  dread  in  his  heart ; 
Your  love  is  the  dewdrop 

That  dies  in  the  sun,— 
Good-by,  and  forever, 

With  Mona  unwon!" 

"  Oh  linger,  oh  linger'! 

And  wed  my  poor  love, 
Your  eyes  like  the  starlights 

That  shimmer  above, 


THE  BLUE  AND   GRAY.  377 

Have  shone  in  their  beauty, 

And  won  from  my  heart 
The  love  I  now  bear  you 

That  death  cannot  part." 

And  home  thro'  the  even 

Went  Leon  and  Mona, 
His  soul  shaped  to  meaning: 

"  I'll  never  disown  her  !" 
And  the  lamps  of  the  heaven 

Were  bright  in  their  beauty 
When  love  to  love  given 

Called  priest  to  his  duty. 


THE  BLUE  AND  GRAY. 

Oh  once  I  knew  the  boys  in  blue, 

The  boys  that  wore  the  gray, 
But  memory's  tears  fall  like  the  dew 

Upon  the  flowers  of  May ! 

CHORUS! 
The  Stars  and  Bars,  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 

O  Soldier  !  which  to  you  ? 
The  Flag  with  Stars?  the  Flag  with  Bars? 

The  faded  Gray  or  Blue  ? 

You  left  alone  with  silent  moan 

A  mother  bathed  in  tears, 
The  homely  hearth  where  love  had  shone 

For  many  peaceful  years. 

You  met  in  arms  when  war's  alarms 

Resounded  to  the  sky, 
And  Nature  there  in  all  her  charms, 

Saw  many  a  hero  die. 

Your  hearts  were  bold,  the  cannon  rolled, 

The  shells  were  bursting  round, 
And  fell  a  thousand  soldiers  bold 

Upon  that  bloody  ground. 

And  then  the  gray  was  surely  gray, 

The  blue  was  surely  blue, 
But  brother  soldiers  which  to-day 

Is  gray  or  blue  to  you  ? 


378  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

O  comrades  old,  your  eyes  have  told 
They've  faded  into  one, 

God  bless  the  heroes  'neath  the  mould, 
Their  deeds  were  bravely  done  ! 

And  they  that  died  are  side  by  side, 
The  boys  that  dared  to  die ; 

They  mingled  there  the  crimson  tide, 
There  mingled  let  them  lie  ! 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 


My  heart  was  stout  as  any  man's ;  to  face 

The  cannon's  mouth,  to  take  the  leading  place 

With  sword  in  hand,  and  lead  the  troops  to  battle, 

And  cheer  them  on  where  gun  and  musket's  rattle 

A  chill  of  terror  sent  across  the  soul, 

'Mid  battery's  horrid  fire,  and  cannon's  roll, 

Like  thunder  from  a  thousand  skies,  was  my 

Delight,  for  where  the  hero  born  to  die 

That  dares  not  bravely"  face  his  doom  ?    To  cite 

A  hundred  men  who  gloried  in  the  fight, 

Were  task  that  history's  page  makes  easy  to 

Reader  who  has  at  heart  the  Boys  in  Blue, 

Or  any  just  and  valorous  soldier.    I 

Make  doubt  if  every  man  that  dares  to  die 

Deserves  a  place  among  the  brave,  the  few, 

Who  win  the  laurels  of  a  hero  true 

For  murderers,  cowards,  robbers,  thieves  stark  mad, 

Have  shown  a  lusty  heroism.     "The  bad 

Is  oft  interred  with  their  bones,"  and  they 

Are  soon  forgot.    They  perish  with  their  day, 

And  leave  no  linking  shred  behind,  as  he 

Who  valorous  fought  the  battles  of  the  free, 

And  died  a  bleeding  hero  for  the  right, 

Another  Ellsworth,  dead  before  the  fight, 

Such  valor  stirred  the  soul.    And  I  have  seen 

The  gaudy  army,  brave  zouaves,  in  sheen 

Of  sparkling  gold,  and  tasseled  cap ;  arrayed 

For  boldest  deed,  with  shining  gun,  where  played 

The  golden  sun  on  thousand  beauties,  they 

With  hearts  afire,  the  treacherous  foe  to  slay, 

And  weltering  there  in  mingled  blood,  lend  fame 

To  dearest  country's  high  renown,  in  flame 


AFTER    THE   BATTLE.  379 

Of  battle,  fog,  and  smoke,  and  din,  the  cry 

Of  soldier,  biting  foreign  dust,  where  nigh, 

Shy  Victory  stormed  the  field,  and  Stars  and  Stripes 

Unfurled  to  the  sky.    And  these  the  types 

Of  savage  War  that  "listening  senates"  hurl 

Upon  a  peaceful  world,  and  townships  curl 

With  vol timed  smoke  to  sure  and  pitiless  woe, 

That  Arbitration  knew  no  voice,  that  so 

It  shall  not  be ;  finesse  of  finer  mind 

With  Eloquence  shall  better  reason  find, 

And  could  the  man  of  finest  brain,  high  placed 

Upon  the  throne  of  might,  what  war  defaced 

Once  see  as  I,  and  thousands  more,  the  scene 

Where  Battle  left  his  dire  remains,  their  mien 

Of  august  prestige,  as  the  ice  when  Spring 

From  earth,  and  sky,  and  air,  does  come  and  cling 

With  warm  sweet  arms  about  his  frosty  form, 

His  hate  of  war  should  rise  above  the  storm, 

And  Eloquence,  to  every  stony  heart 

Make  bold  appeal,  till  guns  in  frenzied  art 

To  slay,  should  turn  to  memories  gone,  when  War 

Was  famed  in  every  land,  the  babe  of  law 

That  nursed  the  lower  traits  of  man,  and  made 

The  carnage  of  the  field,  where  braves  were  slayed, 

A  glorying  theme.    The  smoke  of  strife  has  cleared; 

You  see  the  dead  that  lately  fought  and  cheered, 

And  one  of  those  who  live  to  deck  the  tomb 

That  holds  a  fallen  comrade,  there  the  doom 

I  saw  of  many  a  brave  young  man,  who  died 

In  life's  glad  hour,  and  now  are  side  by  side 

In  death  upon  a  conquered  field,  where  horse, 

And  broken  sword,  and  mangled  limb,  the  course 

Of  insane  Battle  showed.    The  moon,  so  white, 

Was  stealing  slow  above  the  hill,  and  night, 

With  veiling  wing,  was  vying  with  the  stars, 

The  great  round  moon,  to  own  (where  Stars  and  Bars 

Had  sunk  at  last)  the  bloody  field.    And  I 

With  comrades  sought  the  dying.    And  no  eye 

Was  dry  of  pitying  tear  that  came  uncalled, 

And  mingled  with  the  ebbing  tide.    Enthralled, 

We  stood  aghast;  for  wild  excitement  gone, 

Our  bravery  fled,  and  there  before  the  dawn, 

We  wept  as  cowards,  where  we  bravely  slew 

The  dastard  slave  that  dared  the  braves  in  blue.— 

After  the  Battle.    Time  has  turned  me  gray, 

But  years  can  not  obliterate  the  day ; 

No  soldier  ever  yet  forgot,  and  though 

The  Boys  in  Gray  as  comrades  here  below 


380  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

With  Boys  in  Blue,  have  mingled  with  the  years, 
May  each  enshrine  with  immemorial  tears, 
The  memory  of  a  scene  that  fades  to-day, 
Till  holy  Love  knows  not  the  Blue  from  Gray ! 


THE  DYING  VETERAN. 

"Yes,  brother  Hal,  old  Jim  is  gray. 

His  face  is  bronzed  and  brown, 
For  twenty  years  have  rolled  away 

Since  last  he  won  renown ; 
But  all  is  over,  as  you  know, 

The  blue  and  gray  are  one, 
And  where  they  laid  our  comrades  low, 

No  more  resounds  the  gun. 

"No  more  the  bugle  on  the  blast, 

The  order:  'Arms,  to  arms!' 
No  more  the  war-steed  prances  past, 

No  more  the  wild  alarms ; 
But  dying  here,  dear  comrade  Hal, 

The  whole  scene  comes  again, 
And  when  I'd  say,  O  faretheewell, 

The  bullets  fall  like  rain. 

"The  old  canteen  ?    Ah !  thing  divine ! 

Come  here  my  trusty  friend ; 
Yes,  yes,  dear  Hal,  the  thing  was  mine, 

And  shall  be  to  the  end ; 
To  veteran  Jim  the  canteen  was 

The  dearest  and  the  best ; 
And  never  had  a  soldier  cause 

To  be  more  truly  blest 

Than  when  he  marched  from  morn  till  night 

Beneath  a  southern  sky, 
And  when  a  lull  came  in  the  fight, 

The  canteen  was  not  dry ! 
Ah !  sweet  as  nectar  to  the  lip, 

The  dearest  drink  of  erst, 
And  reckless  thirst  had  dared  to  sip 

Where  rebel  shells  had  burst ! 

"And  in  the  bivouac  by  the  stream, 

The  tented  field  at  night, 
It  had  the  sweetness  of  a  dream, 

The  nectar  of  delight ! 


THE   HONEST   POOR. 

But,  ah !  my  brother  once  in  arms, 

My  breath  is  coming  faint, 
My  mother  in  her  holy  charms, 

They  long  since  made  a  saint ! 

"So,  brother  Hal,  'tis  you  and  I, 

This  dear  old  tin  canteen, 
Must  part  at  last,  for  Jim  will  die 

Ere  morning  decks  the  scene. 
But  see  !    To  arms  !    They  come  !    They  come 

Fire  !  lire  !  charge  the  foe  ! 
Each  man  for  country,  strike  for  home ! 

No  rebel  hound  shall  go  ! 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  Stars  and  Bars! 

The  red,  white  and  blue ! 
They  sink  !  they  rise  !    The  rebel  stars 

Are  fallen  with  their  crew  ! 
Yes,  yes ;  I  seemed  upon  the  field, 

God  bless  the  Blue  and  Gray, 
Poor  veteran  Jim  ne'er  yet  did  yield, 

But  he  forgives  to-day  ! 

"Dear  Hal— good  bye— I  feel  afraid, 

But  not  in  battle  grim  ! 
Yet  this  tame  death  was  never  made 

For  bronzed  and  veteran  Jim ; 
But,  faretheewell !    My  breath  is  gone, 

There,  softly  let  me  lean, 
For  I'd  drink  once  ere  death  comes  on, 

From  out  the  old  Canteen!" 


THE  HONEST  POOR. 


A  brother  from  your  number,  friends, 

Would  sing  the  poor  man's  song, 
An  honest  man  is  more  to  him 

Where  peace  and  truth  belong, 
Than  gilded  wight  in  courts  of  ease, 

With  smirk  and  courtly  smile, 
For  when  the  latest  hour  shall  come, 

This  wealth  he  will  revile. 


382  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

CHORUS. 

So,  cheer,  my  toiling  brothers,  cheer, 

Each  man  has  his  reward, 
•  The  claims  of  all  the  honest  poor 

Will  never  be  outlawed. 
The  honest  poor,  the  honest  poor, 

Tho'  humble  be  their  lot, 
Shall  find  that  He  who  shapes  the  storm 
Has  never  yet  forgot. 

The  storms  may  frown  above  your  homes, 

And  crush  your  heart  in  woe, 
But  he  who  lives  an  honest  man 

A  wealth  no  lord  can  know ; 
For  peace  of  mind  and  humble  hearts, 

A  priceless  boon  to  life, 
And  may  he  thank  his  lucky  stars 

He's  poor  and  from  the  strife. 

The  very  wealth  that  gilds  the  land, 

And  covers  many  a  sin, 
Stands  out  across  the  bended  sky 

To  curse  what  'might  have  been !' 
O  poor  man !  rich  man  !  which  of  you 

So  severed  in  your  ties, 
Should  send  the  penitential  prayer 

When  earth's  fair  landscape  dies ! 

Has  gold  made  virtue  from  the  mine 

Of  India's  rarest  wealth, 
And  shaped  a  guileless  human  heart 

Where  Heaven  crowned  by  stealth  ? 
Has  poverty  cursed  the  labored  wight, 

And  crossed  his  brow  with  pride  ? 
O  rich  man !  poor  man !  severed  here, 

Your  walks  are  side  by  side  ! 

The  creed  may  shape  to  gaudy  wealth, 

And  twist  the  Bible  text, 
But  he  that  lords  this  fleeting  world, 

May  never  see  the  next ! 
The  rich  man  thro'  the  needle's  eye, 

With  form  of  sorded  gold, 
May  buy  his  way  with  Croesus'  wealth, 

With  satins  fold  on  fold. 

But  have  a  care,  ye  wights  of  earth, 
The  human  judge  is  bought ; 

But  He  who  rules  above  the  stars 
May  see  that  gilded  spot ! 


THE   RUSTY  SWORD.  383 

The  future  life  by  earthly  things 

Should  ne'er  be  judged  by  man, 
It  is  a  place  where  faith  alone 

With  broadest  hope  may  span ! 

So,  cheer,  my  poor,  and  thank  the  gods 

Your  station,  birth,  is  low, 
For  earth's  temptations  are  the  storms, 

But  honest  worth  the  bow ! 
It  has  a  promise  born  of  love 

To  him  who  rules  his  heart, 
And  sees  the  glittering  stars  above 

His  hopes  that  ne'er  depart ! 


THE  RUSTY  SWORD. 


Yes,  there  it  hangs,  my  dear  old  sword, 
Against  the  crumbling  wall, 

With  rust  upon  its  shining  blade, 
Where  blood  did  once  appall. 

CHORUS. 
But,  dear  old  Sword,  you  are  to  me 

An  emblem  of  the  true, 
You  fought  the  battles  of  the  free, 

And  now  we  honor  you. 

You  led  the  hardy  soldier  on 
Beneath  the  proud  old  Flag, 

You  held  the  front  till  she  became 
A  blood-red  tattered  rag. 

You  led  the  brave  against  the  brave, 

The  foe  against  the  foe, 
Till  hostile  banners  rose  and  fell 

Amid  a  scene  of  woe. 

You  struck  for  honor  and  renown, 

The  right  of  civil  law ; 
Yet  you  to-day  are  but  to  me 

An  emblem  of  the  war. 


384  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  still,  old  Sword,  I  love  you  yet 
For  memories  of  the  past, 

And  though  the  deeds  are  on  your  blade, 
I  hope  they  were  the  last ! 

For  now  the  North  and  sunny  South 
Are  bound  in  bonds  of  peace, 

And  never  such  a  glory  shone 
From  Rome  or  storied  Greece ! 

But  yet,  old  Sword,  while  we  are  here 

Forgotten  and  alone, 
We  yet  may  be  the  truest  friends, 

Tho'  we  are  still  unknown. 

But  God  forgive  us  if  we  erred, 

We  saved  a  Nation  true, 
Brave  Boys  in  Gray,  O  here's  the  hand 

Of  one  that  wore  the  Blue ! 


JOHN'S  MARRIAGE. 


Of  course  you  don't  expect  a  pretty  tale ; 

Why  should  you?  You  have  never  heard  me.    But 

The  bard  that  sang  "Evangeline"  so  sweetly, 

The  "Hanging  of  the  Crane,"  and  many  others 

Purer  than  baby  dreams,  could  not  have  told 

The  beauty  of  their  prestige  in  the  homes 

Of  purest  love.    So  I.    But  even  then 

My  voice  were  dumb,  if  you  had  not  implored  me. 

The  tale  is  short,  and  homely  as  the  love 

Of  Enoch  Ardens,  or  the  youth  that  bowed 

Before  the  shrine  of  the  sweet  Miller's  Daughter ; 

And  yet  the  part  most  vivid  was  the  song 

They  sang,  as,  like  two  cooing  doves,  they  sat 

Beside  the  winding  stream  where  lilies  nodded, 

And  zephyrs  played  among  the  foaming  waves 

And — told  their  love  !    The  town  is  bigger  now ; 

"Tis  changed.    The  railroad  on  its  outskirts  ?  No ; 

It  was  as  yet  undreamed.    The  steam-fire-engine  V 

No,  no  !    The  town  was  not  so  mad.    The  years 

Were  needed  for  an  act  so  bold ;  for  farmers, 

They  still  believed  in  going  slow.    And  so 

The  god  of  Flames  unchecked  wrent  here  and  there, 


JOHN'S  MARltlAUE.  385 

Despoiling  many  a  flowery  homestead,  and 

Leaving  in  charred  ruins  holy  fruits 

Of  slowly  rounding  years.    But  times  improved. 

A  greater  speed  had  come  upon  them,  so 

Like  many  another  town  they  ventured  out 

From  ruts  deep  worn,  and  bought  an  engine  !    And 

The  people  stared.    "  Ah  I  run  by  steam?"    "  O  how 

She  shines  !"  "  Our  homes  are  safe  at  last."    And  thus 

The  comment.    True  enough  it  proved  a  blessing, 

But  farmers  said :  "  Yes,  yes ;  but  it  is  bad ; 

It  teaches  all  our  sons  and  daughters  speed, 

A  lack  of  moderation.    Sure,  it  saves 

The  house,  but  sacrifices  children.".   And, 

My  reader,  it  was  in  this  very  age, 

This  fast,  fast  age  that  John  had  ventured  to — 

To  '  woo  too  well,  if  not  too  wisely.'   And 

We  see  them  there  beside  the  laughing  stream, 

She  listening  rapturously  to  all  he  said, 

And  then  both  joining  in  the  weird,  weird  song : 

SONG. 
O  sweet,  sweet  love,  O  fair,  fair  maid, 

O  pure,  pure  youth  in  love, 
You  have,  have,  have,  too  long,  long  staid 

'Neath  star,  star,  stars  above. 

But  yet,  yet,  yet,  I  know,  know,  know, 

Your  love,  love,  love's  in  vain ; 
'Twill  end,  end,  end,  in  woe,  woe,  woe, 

And  sweet,  sweet  pain,  pain,  pain. 

But  why,  why,  why,  should  I,  I,  I, 

Such  wise,  wise  word  advance  ? 
For  you,  you,  you,  would  die,  die,  die, 

Within  the  sweet,  sweet  trance. 

But  list,  list,  list,  the  tale,  tale,  tale, 

The  bee,  bee,  bee  will  sting ; 
And  love,  love,  love,  in  mail,  mail,  mail, 

Will  do  the  same,  same  thing. 

And  thus  they  sang;  but  '  love,  love,  love,'  had  won ; 
And  when  the  shadows  gathered,  and  the  world 
Was  veiled  in  drowsy  gloom,  the  maid  said  '  yes ;' 
And  John  went  nigh  to  falling,  for  the  stream 
Sang  there,  and  in  his  wild  delight  he  stumbled 
And  would  have  fallen  if  she  he  loved 
Had  failed  to  grasp  his  toppling  form.    And  so 
They  homeward  went,  he  singing  soft  the  song 


386  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Some  foolish  limb  of  verse  had  writ.    But  John 
Was  happy,  and  as  Mrs.  Vale,  the  maid 
He  wooed  and  won,  she  too,  was  happy.    And 
The  years  that  turned  them  gray  had  more  of  joy 
Than  woe.    But  he  is  gone ;  and  I.    Dear  me ; 
I  loved  him  to  the  last.    And  that  strange  song 
Is  dear  to  me  as  gold.    But,  girls,  good-bye ; 
Our  love  was  not  in  vain.    'Twas  death  that  stung, 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 

O  my  Mary !  Queen  of  Scotland ! 

Lovely  maid  of  fair  Lorraine, 
All  the  world  has  heard  thy  beauty, 

Many  a  bard  has  sung  thy  strain. 

But  thy  tale  is  still  of  sadness, 
More  enchanting  made  by  time, 

And  across  the  ocean's  blueness 
Has  a  beauty  in  the  rhyme. 

Years  have  gone  since  bonnie  Scotland 
All  your  woe  did  there  deplore ; 

But  to  one  who  loves  your  country, 
Lives  in  beauty  evermore. 

And  to  France  with  fairest  lily, 

Joined  to  Scotia  till  the  last, 
Shall  we  turn  to  hear  of  Mary  ? 

Or  the  memory,  is  it  past  ? 

She  the  once  unhappy  princess, 
Daughter  of  the  line  of  Guise, 

Who  became  a  lovely  victim 
To  the  lords  of  high  emprise. 

Oh  ye  remnant  blood  of  Stuart ! 

Oh  ye  latest  link  of  James ! 
Do  the  French  and  Scottish  nations 

Honor  none  of  Mary's  claims  ? 

Who  that  schemed  to  overthrow  her? 

Tear  her  from  the  Scottish  Throne  ? 
Born  in  Linlithgow  of  Mary, 

As  the  Queen  of  Scots  alone  ! 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOT8.  387 

And  her  father  dead  at  Falkland, 

From  her  birth  no  joy  did  gain  ;— 
"It  began  and  ends  with  woman, 

And  the  Stuarts  now  shall  reign  !" 

She  became  the  Queen  of  Scotia, 

Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scots, 
Reigning  there  a  blue-blood  Stuart, 

Lovely  in  her  people's  thoughts. 

And  a  babe  the  regent  Arran 

Promised  her  Prince  Edward's  bride ; 
But  a  high  decree  from  Scotland 

Severed  them  so  close  allied. 

Then  a  war  with  jealous  England ; 

But  the  Pinkie  Cleuch  defeat, 
Struck  them  like  another  Flodden, 

Victory  crowding  their  retreat. 

And  upon  an  isle  of  Monteith, 

In  this  now  renowned  Lake, 
Waited  lorn  and  lovely  Mary, 

While  they  battled  for  her  sake. 

And  the  eldest  son  of  Henry, 

Henry  second  then  of  France, 
Would  he  join  the  friendly  nations, 

Tho'  his  blood  should  dye  the  lance  ? 

Yes ;  for  Catharine  de'  Medici, 

And  the  king  do  now  agree ; 
And  the  fleet  of  France  is  sailing, 

And  the  sails  are  swelling  free. 

And  the  fairy  Princess  Mary, 

With  her  friends  are  on  the  Clyde, 
Whence  she  sails  to  meet  the  dauphin 

To  become  his  promised  bride. 

And  the  years  were  speeding  sweetly 

In  her  lilied  France  at  court, 
And  old  Ronsard  taught  her  verses, 

And  old  Cupid  taught  her  sport. 

And  Buchanan  taught  her  Latin, 

And  the  days  went  merry  by  ;— 
Oh  my  bonnie,  bonnie  Mary, 

That  for  Scotland  you  should  die ! 


388  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Now  with  pomp  and  courtly  splendor 
Are  they  wed  in  Notre-Dame ; 

And  no  fairer  queen  of  beauty 
To  the  bridal-chamber  came. 

.  But  she  signs  the  secret  paper, 

And  her  troubles  come  apace, 
And  the  bonnie  bride  of  Francis 
Finds  the  teardrop  on  her  face. 

She  they  dubbed  a  merchant's  daughter, 
Swayed  the  throne  and  court  alike ; 

So  my  Mary  hied  to  Scotland 
Where  grim  Death  had  dared  to  strike. 

By  the  throes  of  Reformation, 
Scotland  trembled  on  her  Throne ; 

And  her  mother  dying  lately, 
Left  her  Queen  of  Scots  alone. 

But  ambitious  were  her  kinsmen, 
Those  the  lords  of  proud  Lorraine ; 

And  they  plotted  for  the  kingdom 
Where  a  mightier  Queen  did  reign. 

But  she  wept  when  she  was  sailing 
From  the  bonnie  shores  of  France ; 

And  her  native  hills  of  Scotland 
Made  her  tearful  in  her  trance. 

But  beneath  the  sway  of  Murray 
Did  the  Earl  of  Huntly  fall ; 

And  the  dogmas  with  religion, 
Now  were  spreading  like  a  pall. 

And  the  higher  Courts  of  Europe 
Were  concocting  bitter  plans, 

For  the  hand  of  Scottish  Mary 
To  unite  the  hostile  clans. 

And  the  wedless  King  of  Sweden, 
And  of  Denmark,  and  of  France ; 

And  the  arch-duke  Charles  of  Austria, 
Would  they  come  and  break  the  lance  ? 

Yes ;  my  lords,  and  brave  Don  Carlos, 
And  Ferrara's  noble  Duke ; 

Earl  of  Arran,  Earl  of  Leicester, 
E'en  would  dare  her  high  rebuke. 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  389 

But  nor  lord  nor  duke  of  Anjou, 

With  my  Queen  of  Scots  could  reign, 
For  she  loved  the  Spanish  noble, 

Proud  Don  Carlos,  heir  of  Spain. 

But  her  hopes  were  surely  blasted, 

And  a  Stuart  was  her  choice ; 
And  at  Holyrood  the  wedding, 

With  a  solemn  scene  and  voice. 

This  was  cause  for  insurrection, 

With  a  Murray  at  its  head ; 
And  the  Hamiltons  commingled, 

But  ah  !  vainly  that  they  led. 

For  she  takes  the  field  in  person, 

And  she  drives  them  thro'  the  Tweed ; 
But,  my  Scotland  !  other  causes 

That  may  make  a  kingdom  bleed. 

Only  brief  was  Mary's  triumph, 

He  that  she  had  made  a  king, 
Had  a  higher,  vainer  craving, 

And  the  gauntlet  glove  did  fling. 

And  he  planned  with  Murray,  Morton, 

Ruthven,  too,  and  many  a  one, 
To  destroy  the  throne  of  Scotland, — 

And  what  murder  have  they  done  ? 

Only  David,  the  Italian 

Murdered  in  her  ante-room ; 
But  O  son  of  Earl  of  Lennox  ! 

Quick  shall  follow  thy  own  doom! 

"I  shall  be  your  wife  no  longer!" 

And  they  locked  in  Holyrood 
She  that  rose  the  Queen  of  Scotland, 

By  a  kingdom  had  been  wooed ! 

But,  ah !  Darnley,  woman's  wisdom  ! — 

She  has  won  thee  back  again ; 
Is  it  there  to  fall  together? 

Or  together  wisely  reign  ? 

Nay !    Art  fleeting  thro'  the  shadows  ! 

For  your  safety  to  Dunbar; — 
And  too  soon  within  the  zenith 

Pales  the  waning  Scottish  star  ! 


390  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDA  LE. 

And  the  King  falls  sick  at  Glasgow, 
But  in  Edinburgh  he  lies ; — 

Hark !  that  heavy  blast  of  powder ! 
And  the  king  of  Scotland  dies ! — 

She  has  crossed  the  winding  Solway, 
She  is  prostrate  at  the  Throne ; 

But  in  Fotheriiighay  they  placed  her, 
Where  my  Mary  weeps  alone. 

And  they  place  her  like  a  martyr, 
On  the  bloody  block  of  death ; 

And  the  Queen  of  Scots,  my  Mary, 
They  have  hushed  fore'er  thy  breath ! 

But  my  own  true  Scottish  people, 
As  you  bow  above  her  tomb, 

Can  you  see  her  traits  of  beauty 
Thro'  the  horror  of  her  doom  ? 

And  my  England,  France,  and  Scotland, 
Do  you  now  deplore  her  fate  ?— 

O  my  Mary  !  queenly  Mary  ! 
Baser  ones  they  have  to  hate  ! 


THE  WORM. 


The  young  Spring  leaves  are  thick  above  me, 
The  evening  dews  are  on  the  ground ; 

The  mock-birds  sing  from  out  the  foliage, 
And  all  the  world  seems  happy  round. 

I  ramble  homeward  thro'  the  shadows, 
I  think  of  Heaven  above  the  earth ; 

The  myriad  flowers  are  blooming  round  me, 
And  all  the  scene  is  full  of  mirth. 

The  day  is  fading  into  even, 
The  folks  are  walking  on  the  street ; 

The  casual  friends  that  wrander  homeward, 
A  moment  linger  when  they  meet. 

A  difference,  sure,  among  the  people, 
The  lighter  ones  go  heedless  by ; 


THE  PEBBLE  STONE.  391 

But  arm  in  arm  we  notice  others, 
With  thoughts  that  soar  the  drowsing  sky. 

The  little  worm  all  coiled  and  homely, 

(Ah  !  homely  unto  those  that  walk 
Across  the  scenes  of  earthly  beauty, 

And  hold  with  self  no  inner  talk,) 

Is  struggling  hard  to  cross  the  pathway ; 

But  haste  thee  not,  O  gentle  thing ! 
These  men  that  arm  in  arm  are  walking, 

Would  never  harm  you  where  you  cling! 

They  even  talk  of  things  in  Heaven 

When  there  they  see  you  on  the  grass ; 
The  lighter  ones,  they  turn  to  crush  you, 

But  half  unconscious  as  they  pass  ! 

O.  little  worm  !  you  preach  a  sermon, 

E'en  mighty  Beechers  have  not  known ; 
And  he  that  turns  aside  to  crush  you 

Will  never  find  the  great  white  Throne  ! 


THE  PEBBLE  STONE. 


Little  pebble  softly  shining 

In  the  bottom  of  the  rill, 
Did  I  know  your  subtle  meaning, 

Could  I  pass  you  thoughtless  still  ? 

Did  you  grow  in  graded  beauty 
Till  you  reached  your  present  form, 

'Neath  the  bended  skies  above  you, 
Thro'  the  sunshine  and  the  storm  ? 

Did  you  come  of  mother-Nature, 
Or  the  Power  above  the  skies  ?— 

We  have  poets,  we  have  sages, 
That  are  very,  very  wise. 

But  no  bigger  than  a  thimble 

On  my  fairy  lady's  hand, 
Yet  you  still  remain  a  puzzle 

To  the  wisest  in  the  land ! 


392  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  I  pluck  you  from  the  waters, 
And  I  hold  you  in  my  palm ; 

But  I  cannot  understand  you, 
Yet  my  study  makes  me  calm. 

For  I  think  of  Him  who  reigneth 

Omnipresent  unto  all ; 
And  the  hand  that  made  the  pebble 

Will  it  let  the  sparrow  fall  ? 

'Tis  the  pebble,  not  the  mountain, 
Not  the  pyramids,  nor  Rome ; 

Not  the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa, 
That  shall  paint  the  heavenly  Home  ! 

For  the  simplest  things  are  sweetest, 
And  do  more  accord  with  Him, 

Who  has  dared  to  face  for  sinners, 
E'en  a  Death  so  dark.and  grim  ! 


THE  OLD  CANTEEN. 

I  tell  you,  Jim,  it  ain't  no  use, 

A  soldier  can't  forget, 
Those  bloody  scenes  are  just  as  fresh 

As  on  the  day  we  met ; 
But  all  the  relics  of  the  war, 

The  broken  sword,  I  ween, 
E'en  knapsack  old,  there  is  none  like 

The  dear  old  tin  Canteen. 

You  recollect  as  well  as  I 

The  hunger  and  the  thirst, 
The  mad  career  of  horse  and  men, 

Where  rebel  shells  had  burst ; 
But  after  all,  you  gray  old  vet., 

The  best  remembered  scene, 
Was  when  we  stole  a  chance  to  drink 

From  out  the  old  Canteen. 

I  know  as  well  as  any  man, 

That  wore  the  blue  or  gray, 
That  war  is  hardship,  e'en  at  best, 

Tho'  Victory  crown  the  day ; 
But  yet,  dear  Jim,  you  gray  old  bat, 

You  know  the  freshest  scene 
Was  when  you  drank  the  last  dear  drop 

From  out  the  old  Canteen. 


THE  OLD   CANTEEN. 

We  were  in  Libby  !    Yes,  dear  Jim 

We  were  among  the  first, 
And  Marathon,  Thermopylae, 

The  bloody  wars  of  erst, 
Knew  not  the  woe  of  rebel  pens, 

The  guard  of  haughty  mien, 
But  even  there  did  we  forget 

To  love  the  old  Canteen  ? 


393 


THE  OLD   CANTEEN. 


Oh,  yes,  I  know,  the  bit  of  rice, 

The  hoe-cake  and  the  corn, 
Like  orient  viands  seemed  to  us 

From  dear  old  Plenty's  horn ; 
But  still,  you  one-legged,  gray-haired  Jim, 

No  memory  is  so  green, 
As  when  we  risked  our  lives  to  kiss 

The  lips  of  that  Canteen. 


394  TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  in  the  dust  together  lie 

The  boys  in  blue  arid  gray, 
The  war  is  but  a  memory  gone 

Of  that  eventful  Day ; 
But  as  we  wander  'mid  their  graves 

Where  willows  softly  lean, 
We  dimly  see,  thro'  veiling  tears, 

That  holy  old  Canteen ! 

And  while  we  bow  above  the  braves, 

That  death,  dear  Jiii,  made  one, 
We  must  forget  there  ever  was 

A  battle  fought  and  won ; 
But  if  we  cherish  in  our  hearts 

Some  dear  and  holy  scene, 
Don't  let  the  hallowed  memory  go 

Of  that  old  tin  Canteen. 


THE  NURSE. 

O  you  that  love  the  Soldier,  and  the  Cause 

That  he  in  valor  late  espoused,  oh  pause 

Amid  the  gay  fantastic  scene,  the  dance, 

The  ballroom  glare,  for  I  would  break  a  lance 

For  valorous  deeds  that  he  has  done,  when  home, 

And  country,  seemed  a  dear  more  glorious  Rome 

Than  true  first  Rome  had  ever  been,  and  filled 

The  world  with  loud  applause,  tho'  blood  was  spilled 

By  loveliest  worth  in  noble-hearted  beauty, 

And  spilt  upon  the  Shrine  of  fair-browed  Duty, 

In  Freedom's  first  front  rank  !    A  veteran  I 

With  many  a  scar  beneath  a  southern  sky 

in  hottest  battle  won,  and  full  of  pride 

As  any  hero,  though  a  modest  bride 

Were  not  so  shy  of  rosy  blush  as  I 

Of  deeds  my  history  tells  you,  here  would  fly 

The  tattered  Flag  as  emblem  of  their  deeds 

Upon  a  southern  soil.    When  he  that  reads 

The  history  of  a  Nation's  birth  in  blood, 

Where  Time,  with  cold  mechanic  eye,  has  stood 

Till  wounds  have  healed,  and  saddest  flowers  bloom 

In  beauty  o'er  a  mouldering  hero's  tomb, 

The  wild  applause  resounds  no  more,  the  god 

Of  Eloquence  no  more  the  magic  rod 


THE  NURSE.  395 

Displays  in  crowded  hall  and  mart,  but  tame 

And  voiceless,  there  before  the  ruddy  flame 

That  mounts  above  the  and-irons,  waits  in  peace, 

And  ease,  for  slow-won  hours  to  give  release 

To  god  of  Battles,  and  reclaim  his  art. 

But  I  a  soldier  with  a  warm  proud  heart, 

Can  not  forget.    I  see  with  vivid  eye 

The  battle-smoke  upcurl,  a  hero  die 

That  might  have  won  renown  in  senate  hall, 

Upon  the  rostrum,  from  the  past  recall 

The  deeds  of  daring  by  the  brave,  untold 

As  yet,  but  with  a  glory  as  of  old 

Grand  heroes,  waiting  for  the  magic  voice 

Of  him  who  makes  the  private  soldier  choice 

Of  theme,  and  not  the  Ellsworths,  Grants,  and  Lees, 

Whose  deeds  are  blazoned  thro'  the  world,  the  Dees, 

The  Doons,  the  Danubes,  e'en  the  maddening  Rhones, 

Outsinging  of  their  fame  in  myriad  tones ! 

But  though  the  memories  of  the  War  are  great, 

And  myriad,  still  the  wounded  soldier,  mate 

With  suffering,  wooing  Death  with  baby  heart, 

And  knowing  not  a  mother's  care,  the  part 

The  quiet,  holy  nurse  has  ta'en,  does  seem 

An  angel  presence  in  a  holy  dream, 

And  fills  him  with  the  beauty  of  a  thing 

That  was,  and  with  a  seraph  light  does  cling 

A  vine  of  hallowed  freshness  still  about 

The  veteran's  heart,  a  Hero's  light  held  out 

Till  bold  Leander  is  no  more.    I  tell 

As  one  who  knows,  and  might  have  said  farewell 

To  life,  with  wounds  unhealed,  if  she,  so  calm ! 

So  pure !  so  true !  had  not  poured  soft  the  balm 

Of  Giliad  upon  my  troubled  soul, 

A  nd  made  the  joy-bells  ring,  where  else  did  toll 

The  muffled  funeral  bell.    The  Nightingales 

Of  camp  and  field.    The  hero's  glory  pales 

Before  the  beauty  of  their  deeds,  and  sends 

A  prayer  among  the  clouds.    Their  valor  blends 

With  every  noble  act ;  and  did  I  die 

In  camp  or  curtained  bed,  the  great  blue  sky 

Should  hear  my  dying  word:  "O  angel  Nurse ! 

Sweet  minister  of  the  sick,  I  would  rehearse 

In  prayer  thy  holy  deeds,  and  all  my  love 

For  one  that's  fittest  made  to  shine  above. 

God  bless  thee  with  thy  brave  and  noble  heart, 

And  when  you  die,  an  angel  will  depart!" 


THE  LADY  OF  DAI? DALE. 


SWEET  JUNE  AT  LAST. 

And  so  you've  come,  my  leafy  June, 
With  myriad  nature  all  in  tune, 
The  rose  and  flower,  and  bird  and  song, 
And  never  seemed  a  merrier  throng ; 
We  look  to  east,  we  look  to  west, 
But  every  field  and  farm  is  drest 
With  leaf  and  vine,  and  freshest  flower, 
That  make  my  June  the  month  this  hour 
To  woo  the  mind  and  heart  of  all 
In  nature's  lovely  banquet  hall, 
From  lower  thought  and  cares  of  life, 
The  things  that  seem  to  be  at  strife, 
And  paint  a  picture  where  the  Spring 
Has  gone  a-wooing  on  the  wing,  > 
And  left  the  world  a  barren  field, 
Where  thyme  nor  floweret  fragrance  yield. 
Old  Winter  blew  his  blast  in  vain, 
From  boreal  haunts  across  the  main, 
For  April  rose  above  his  crown, 
And  rained  and  rained  till  he  did  drown, 
And  then  my  May  with  garlands  gay, 
Rose  blushing,  blooming  thro'  the  spray, 
And  sang  of  Spring,  the  lovely  Spring, 
That  joy  and  plenty  e'er  did  bring, 
And  love  and  May  went  dancing  gay, 
Till  June  came  on  in  bridal  'ray, 
And  smiling  from  her  leafy  bower, 
She  sang  of  love  ,the  May-day  hour, 


POEM.  397 


And  twined  her  leafy  garlands  round 
The  maid  and  youth  that  love  had  bound, 
And  while  she  watched  the  heaving  breast 
Of  rosy  love  that  stood  confest, 
She  took  the  harp  that  nature  strung, 
And  softly  played  and  sweetly  sung  : 

SONG. 
"The  May  came  in  with  shine  and  shower 

From  loveliest  southern  clime, 
But  winter  winds  o'erruled  the  hour, 

And  jarred  upon  the  rhyme  ; 
The  maids  that  went  a-Maying  then, 

In  meadow,  field  and  farm, 
Found  winter  starred  the  diadem, 

And  gave  the  buds  alarm  ; 
But  when  sweet  June  with  harp  in  tune, 

With  bud,  and  leaf,  and  rose, 
Came  tripping  on  across  the  dawn, 

The  tragic  scene  did  close  ; 
And  nature  like  a  laughing  child, 

Loud  clapped  her  hands  for  joy, 
And  rosy  June  e'en  modest,  mild, 

With  girl  and  laughing  boy, 
Went  tripping  on  together  now, 

'Mid  weed  and  tangled  flower, 
For  milder  June  had  soothed  the  gale, 

And  warmed  the  rosy  hour." 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Years  have  gone  since  first  we  gathered, 
Years  have  slowly  passed  away, 

Till  old  age  has  come  upon  us, 
Streaking  all  our  locks  with  gray. 

Friends  have  gone  and  friends  have  parted, 
Friends  have  died  we  loved  so  well, 

And  with  tears  and  lowly  sobbings, 
We  have  said  our  last  farewell. 

And  the  heart  is  filled  with  sadness, 
As  we  look  thro'  all  the  years ; 

But  we  see  them  fair  and  faintly 
Thro'  the  mist  of  falling  tears. 


398  THE  LADY  OF  VARDALE. 

And  the  past  seems  even  brighter, 
As  our  memories  turn  the  page  ; 

For  the  scenes  of  early  childhood 
Seem  more  lovely  in  old  age. 

And  this  aged  couple  bending 
With  the  heavy  weight  of  years, 

Cannot  help  the  tone  of  sadness, 
Cannot  help  the  falling  tears. 

For  in  memory  have  they  wandered 
Thro'  the  misty,  gray  old  past, 

Where  beside  the  sorrowing  sick-bed 
Some  sweet  life  has  breathed  its  last. 

And  they  see  a  sweet  fair  daughter 
That  has  joined  the  ranks  of  death, 

Dying  like  a  floweret  blooming 
With  its  rich  and  fragrant  breath. 

Yet  their  Sarah,  who  had  married, 
She  at  last  they  laid  away ; 

But  a  son  and  fair-haired  daughter, 
Blessed  that  holy  wedding-day. 

Yet  the  years,  ah  !  years  of  sorrow  ! 

Others  in  the  grave  have  laid ; 
But  the  memory  of  these  children, 

From  these  old  folks,  can  it  fade  ? 

Never,  never,  ah  !  no  never ! 

Never,  never  while  shall  be 
Life  that  He  so  freely  gave  you, 

Him  they  crowned  in  Galilee. 

And  the  children  still  around  yor . 

Cannot  blot  the  woe  of  years ; 
But  their  love  can  gently  lead  you 

Thro'  this  vale  of  joy  and  tears. 

Things  of  earth  are  fair  but  fleeting, 
Things  of  Life  are  staid  and  fast ; 

Heaven  the  goal  you  hearts  are  seeking, 
Ever  Heaven  first  and  last ! 

So,  were  earth  a  scene  of  sorrow, 
So,  were  earth  a  scene  of  joy, 

Still  will  Heaven  crown  the  morrow 
With  a  Hope  earth  can't  destroy. 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  GLENCOE.  399 

For  the  ones  who  love  in  duty, 

For  the  ones  who  bear  the  cress : 
And  their  graves  will  shine  in  beauty, 

Tho'  they're  covered  o'er  with  moss. 

And  this  second  marriage  holy, 

Is  akin  to  second  Birth ; 
And  each  heart  so  humble,  lowly, 

Is  prepared  to  go  from  earth  ! 

And  again  we  meet  here  never, 

Let  us  cherish  all  the  past, 
Till  within  the  great  Forever, 

Every  soul  is  joined  at  last  ! 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  GLENCOE. 

Ho!  ye  knights,  and  ho!  ye  clansmen ! 

Ho  !  ye  chiefs  of  every  tribe ; 
For  the  King  of  bonnie  Scotland 

Gives  an  edict  to  his  scribe. 

All  ye  clansmen  of  the  border, 
Lowland  nook,  or  Highland  den, 

Come  as  comes  the  wild  December 
When  old  Winter  storms  the  glen. 

Take  the  oaths  of  King  and  Queen,  sir ! 

War  no  more  for  haughty  James ; 
For  the  King,  the  King  of  Scotland, 

Every  brave  insurgent  claims. 

And  to  Campbell,  Colin  Campbell, 

Hie  ye  one,  or  hie  ye  all, 
Else  the  snows  of  bleak  December 

As  your  winding-sheet  will  fall. 

Come  they  from  the  shrouded  Highlands, 

Every  pass,  and  every  nook  ? 
Yes,  the  brave  insurgent  Chieftains 

Stream  her  sides  like  mountain  brook. 

See  them  there  in  tartan  raiments, 
In  their  Highland  quilted  plaid, 

Once  the  chiefs  that  warred  in  Albyn, 
Headed  every  border  raid. 


400  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

Now  they  bow  in  proud  allegiance 
To  the  Throne  of  William  Third; 

Yet  the  breast  of  each  untamed 
As  the  haughty  mountain  bird. 

But  the  Chief  of  Clan  Macdonald, 
In  the  valley  of  Glencoe, 

Will  he  haste  to  cross  the  Cona 
Ere  December  winds  shall  blow? 

He  alone  of  all  the  chieftain 
Had  not  signed  the  high  decree ; 

But  he  hastes  to  Inverary 
Thro'  the  whirlwinds  mad  with  glee. 

Thro'  the  passes  wild  with  beauty, 
Thro'  the  valley  of  Glencoe ; 

Hasting  on  to  Inverary 
Thro'  the  storm-blast  and  the  snow. 

Little  dreaming,  little  thinking, 
Of  the  woe  that  was  in  store ; 

But  my  Scotland  can  I  blame  thee, 
Tho'  a  hundred  earls  implore  ? 

For  the  Campbell  of  Glenlyon, 
And  the  haughty  Earl  of  Stair, 

All  the  valley  near  Loch  Leven 
Would  they  turn  to  mad  despair ! 

All  the  scene  is  wild  with  beauty, 
But  Maclan  are  you  late  ? 

For  a  captain  and  a  viscount 
Have  foredoomed  your  bloody  fate ! 

Yes,  my  Chief  !  and  thro'  the  valley, 
Near  the  skirts  of  Inverness, 

More  than  forty  Highland  corpses, 
Never  more  shall  need  redress  ! 

Two  subalterns  and  a  captain, 
At  the  head  of  six-score  men, 

Swarm  among  the  mountain  passes, 
Cross  the  rugged  Highland  glen. 

And  they  come  in  kindred  friendship, 
To  the  vale  of  fair  Glencoe ; 

And  they  dine  beside  the  hearthstone 
That  they  soon  will  lay  in  woe. 


THE  BAREFOOT  GIRL.  401 

And  they  join  the  joke  and  jesting, 

And  they  tip  the  blood-red  wine ; 
And  in  jovial  hospitality 

With  the  fated  household  dine. 

But  the  evening  shadows  gathered 

In  the  vale  and  mountain  pass ; 
And  old  Scotia's  bonnie  Jamie, 

Went  to  woe  her  bonnie  lass. 

And  the  babe  beside  his  mother 

Was  a-blooming  like  the  rose, 
While  the  gentle  god  of  slumber 

Every  holy  eye  did  close. 

But  the  brave  and  mighty  Captain, 

With  his  brave  and  valorous  band ; 
Kose  up  there  amid  the  shadows 

With  the  dagger  in  his  hand. 

O!  how  brave!  you  see  them  slaughter 

Old  and  young,  the  bright  and  gay ; 
There  a  mother  with  her  infant, 

There  a  father  old  and  gray. 

When  can  fade  such  deeds  of  glory  ? 

When  was  massacre  more  brave  ? 
Scotlan  1,  Mary,  and  King  William, 

Thou  untarnished  by  their  grave  ! 

Land  of  Burns  !  I  cannot  blame  thee  ! 

Land  of  Scott !  a  Breadalbane 
Stands  alone  upon  your  history, 

As  the  murderer  of  the  slain  ! 


THE  BAREFOOT  GIRL. 

She  stood  half  hid  in  the  flowers  of  May, 
In  such  an  artless,  artless  way, 
With  so  many  a  rare  and  rustic  curl, 
That  all  hearts  loved  the  Barefoot  Girl. 

Her  gown  was  made  of  a  homespun  stuff, 
With  sleeves  that  wore  no  dainty  cuff ; 
But  who  may  say  a  lord  or  an  earl 
Could  not  have  loved  the  Barefoot  Girl? 
27 


402  THE  LADY  OF  DA RDALE. 

Her  hands  were  small  and  a  trifle  brown ; 
But  O  my  maids  that  queen  in  town, 
The  beauty  was  rare  as  the  brooks  that  purl, 
That  God  had  given  the  Barefoot  Girl ! 

The  little  farm  house  now  just  at  her  back, 
That  slept  in  its  vines  by  its  winding  track, 
Just  by  the  brook  where  the  waters  swirl, 
Was  the  soft  sweet  home  of  the  Barefoot  Girl. 

And  like  a  fawn  she  strolled  o'er  the  grass, 
Till  the  Barefoot  Boy  said:  "Alas,  alas  ! 
From  Ind  or  India  there  ne'er  was  a  pearl 
That  matched  the  beauty  of  the  Barefoot  Girl !" 

You  see  that  flower  on  the  old  gray  wall, 
Nature  has  made  it  so  sweet  and  small ; 
And  in  her  hair  with  its  natural  curl, 
How  sweet  'twould  look  on  the  Barefoot  Girl ! 

And  clambering  there  with  a  heart  full  of  glee, 
Said  the  youth :  "  That  rosy  I'll  gather  for  thee  !" 
And  soft  in  her  hair  !  O  the  joy  of  joy, 
That  came  to  the  heart  of  the  Barefoot  Boy  '. 

The  May  was  sweet  with  the  song  of  the  birds. 
And  rustic  and  plain  were  the  low-said  words  ; 
They  stood  just  where  the  soft  waters  purl 
The  Barefoot  Boy  and  the  Barefoot  Girl. 

And  Cupid,  the  imp  !  O  rogue  in  disguise  ! 
Stood  softly  between  them,  and  just  of  the  size 
Of  the  little  red  rose  on  the  little  red  curl 
That  the  Barefoot  Boy  gave  the  Barefoot  Girl. 

And  love" like  this!  O  where  is  it  found  ! 
Where  wealth  and  where  jewels  in  beauty  abound? 
There's  none  like  the  love,  there's  none  like  the  joy, 
Of  the  Barefoot  Girl  and  the  Barefoot  Boy  ! 

Her  dress  it  was  short,  and  her  ankles  were  brown, 
And  the  curls  o'er  her  shoulders  in  beauty  hung  down ; 
No  pride  on  her  lip  that  anger  could  curl, 
For  God  had  made  her  a  Barefoot  Girl ! 

She  knew  not  the  arts  that  Fashion  had  'rayed, 
For  Nature  had  shaped  her  a  Barefoot  Maid ; 
And  the  little  brown  youth  that  the  flower  made  glad, 
O  what  was  he  but  a  Barefoot  Lad  ! 


THE  BAREFOOT  GIRL.  403 

His  pants  were  rolled,  one  up,  one  down, 
He  knew  not  the  arts  that  lord  in  the  town : 
But  a  part  of  Nature  so  good  and  so  glad, 
He  was  King  of  the  earth,  this  Barefoot  Lad  ! 

She  had  no  thought  of  her  feet  or  her  gown, 
The  little  straw  hat  from  her  hand  hung  down ; 
Her  collarless  neck,  the  untaught  curls, 
Her  heart  was  pure  as  a  Barefoot  Girl's  ! 

O  who  may  say  from  the  high  throne  of  Art : 
'"Tis  here  the  false  pride,  the  pride  of  the  heart !" 
There's  none  that  can  match  them,  a  lord  or  an  earl, 
The  Barefoot  Boy  and  the  Barefoot  Girl ! 

"I'll  get  you  a  lily  to  wear  in  your  hair  !" 
Said  the  Barefoot  Boy  with  an  artless  air ; 
No  thought  that  the  lip  in  anger  might  curl, 
For  the  Barefoot  Boy  loved  the  Barefoot  Girl. 

His  clothes  they  were  torn,  and  patches  were  there  ! 
Her  homespun  dress  !    But  love  made  her  fair  ! 
And  hand  in  hand  together  they  strayed, 
The  Barefoot  Lad  and  the  Barefoot  Maid. 

The  skies  were  bright  in  their  beauty  above, 
And  the  wrhole  world  there  seemed  singing  of  love ; 
The  babbling  brook  was  chiming  a  tune, 
And  the  hours  went  by  like  a  day  in  June. 

The  shadows  of  even  fell  soft  on  the  scene, 
And  the  lovely  old  earth  was  calm  and  serene ; 
And  the  cows  came  lowing  adown  the  green  lane, 
And  the  shadows  fell  soft  on  the  old  weather-vane. 

And  the  farmer  had  wondered  where  the  cow-boy  went, 
Why  the  cows  came  not,  what  the  whole  thing  meant; 
But  Love  was  aware,  and  he  made  her  a  pearl, 
To  the  Barefoot  Boy  the  Barefoot  Girl ! 

She  in"  her  teens,  and  he  a  year  more  ; 
And  Cupid :  "O  why  didn't  you  love  her  before?" 
But  little  we  know  tho'  great  was  her  joy, 
Why  the  Barefoot  Girl  loved  the  Barefoot  Boy  ! 

And  little  we  know  why  the  love  was  returned. 
Two  lives  had  met,  and  for  something  had  yearned  ; 
So,  natural  as  brook  that  softly  does  purl, 
The  Barefoot  Bov  loved  the  Barefoot  Girl. 


404  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

No  gold  was  the  gain  but  a  pure  sweet  heart, 
And  cruel  the  years  that  shall  tear  them  apart ; 
For  the  rustic  love  of  the  maid  in  her  joy 
Was  all  the  wide  world  to  the  Barefoot  Boy. 

And  she :  O  ragged  the  clothes  that  he  wore  ! 
And  he :  O  briars  that  the  homely  dress  tore  ! 
But  what  if  their  clothing  were  tattered  and  frayed, 
The  Barefoot  Lad  loved  the  Barefoot  Maid  ! 

And  who  shall  say  her  love  was  less  true 
Because  her  hat  let  the  jaunty  curl  through? 
And  love  that  he  gave  her  less  love  unto  him 
Because  his  straw  hat  was  broke  at  the  brim  ? 

Away  false  pride !    The  love  of  the  heart 
Is  deeper  than  death,  and  higher  than  art; 
And  love  have  his  way  he'll  seem  like  an  earl 
The  Barefoot  Boy  to  the  Barefoot  Girl! 

And  true  to  his  nature  young  love  will  take 
The  darling  maid  for  her  own  sweet  sake ; 
And  God  shall  join  them  in  beauty  arrayed, 
The  Barefoot  Lad  and  the  Barefoot  maid  ! 


THE  LEAF. 


Here  and  there  the  birds  are  singing, 
Up  and  down  the  people  go ; 

For  the  sweet  and  flowery  May-time 
Rings  with  joy-bells  soft  and  low. 

Here's  a  twig,  and  there's  a  blossom, 
Here  are  grasses  thick  and  green ; 

There  some  tangled  weeds  and  posies, 
Soft  outstart  amid  the  scene. 

Here  the  water  tumbles  softly, 
There  a  lilied  babbling  brook; 

Shepherds  hie  across  the  mountains. 
Some  are  leaning  on  their  crook. 

May  is  blooming,  maids  are  laughing, 
Music  pealeth  here  and  there ; 


O.V   THE  MEADOW.  405 

Ami  the  young  swain  wooes  the  maiden 
Love  has  made  so  faultless  fair. 

And  the  leaf  has  clomb  the  tree-top, 

Dancing  on  the  tilting  twig; 
Till  below  the  veiling  branches 

Children  dance  a  merry  jig. 

Like  their  fathers  half  unconscious 

Of  the  hand  that  made  the  leaf ; 
Thinking  of  the  Father  only 

When  the  heart  is  weighed  with  grief. 

Little  sermons  are  you,  leaflets, 

Little  prayers  upon  the  tree ; 
Teaching  sweet  and  holy  lessons 

Unto  those  that  think  of  thee. 

O  how  grand,  and  howr  suggestive ! 

Are  the  seeming  trifles  here ; 
When  with  holy  inspiration 

Man  may  watch  them  year  by  year ! 


ON  THE  MEADOW. 


On  the  velvet  grass  that  greens  the  meadow. 

Near  the  elm  trees  drooping  there, 
I  was  watching,  waiting,  and  was  thinking, 

Of  the  beauties  everywhere ! 

4 'Sure,"  I  thought,  "the  grand  old  earth  is  lovely, 

In  the  vale,  or  on  the  hill ; 
And  an  inner  music  beats  responsive 

To  the  pebbled  tinkling  rill. 

"Man  were  strange  that  could  not  think  of  Heaven 

With  such  beauty  'neath  the  feet; 
Thousand,  thousand  things  are  thus  suggestive 

In  the  meadow  soft  and  sweet. 

"But  I  \vonder  yet,  and  still  I  wonder. 

How  a  heaven  can  be  more  grand, 
When  beneath  my  feet,  and  round  about  me, 

Perfect  beauty  decks  the  land. 


406  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

"Just  before  me  sweeps  a  tangled  river, 
At  my  back  the  mountains  rise ; 

Here  and  there,  above  and  all  around  me, 
Beauty's  landscapes  meet  my  eyes ! 

"I  am  rapt  with  pictures  in  the  heavens, 
With  the  pictures  here  below ; 

If  old  earth  is  lovely,  O  so  lovely ! 
Sure  of  Heaven  no  man  can  know. 

"Yet  they  say  all  beauty,  earthly  beauty, 
Gives  no  hint  of  what  is  There ; 

Only  he  that  sees  in  lowly  spirit 
Finds  this  Heaven  a  place  more  fair. 

"But  old  Earth  to  me  so  grand  and  lovely ! 

Were  this  Heaven  more  fair  than  thee, 
Then  the  poet-mind  has  no  conception 

What  this  promised  Land  may  be ! 


THE  EARTH  IS  BEAUTIFUL, 

May  was  verging  leafy  June, 
Birds  were  singing  here  and  there ; 

Early  roses  blushed  in  tune, 
All  the  land  was  sweet  and  fair. 

Such  the  beauty  blooming  round, 
Such  the  joy  within  his  heart, 

That  he  said:  "O  hallowed  ground, 
Can  we  ever,  ever  part  ? 

"All  your  seasons  smile  for  me, 
I  can  love  you  thro'  the  snow ; 

And  this  Land  across  the  Sea, 
Is  it  brighter  ?  tell  me  so. 

"Earth  has  beauty  all  the  year, 
Storm  and  cloud  can  hide  it  not ; 

And  the  heart  that  pictures  clear, 
Still  more  lovely  finds  the  thought. 

"Men  are  heedless  if  they  think 
Only  Spring  has  Beauty's  garb ; 


CHILDREN'S  DAY.  407 

All  the  Seasons  link  by  link, 
Touch  with  joy  like  Cupid's  barb. 

"Can  I  say :  O-faretheewell, 

Lovely  Earth !  we  two  must  part  ?— 
For  my  friend  the  teardrops  fell,— 

Do  not  go !  'twill  break  the  heart ! 

"Yes,  they  promise.    Faith  has  said : 

'Watch  and  wait,  and  bear  the  Cross, 
And  the  One  that  humbly  bled 

Will  repay  you  for  your  loss!' 

"And  I  wait,  while  lovely  Earth! 

You  may  hint  of  beauties  There, 
Where  the  true  ones  find  their  birth 

Far  across  the  voiceless  air!" 


CHILDREN'S  DAY. 

Said  a  pretty  maiden,  soft  and  sweetly  : 
"Mother,  what  is  Children's  Day?" 

And  the  little  maid  with  golden  ringlets, 
Turned  a  moment  from  her  play. 

"Come,  my  child,  and  mother  dear  will  tell  you," 

And  the  maiden  climbed  her  lap,  . 
Toying  half  unconscious  with  her  buttons, 

And  the  frill  around  her  cap. 

"Years  on  years  ago  within  a  manger, 

Was  a  little  baby  born, 
Who  had  come  of  God  to  save  the  sinners 

Wandering  on  the  earth  forlorn. 

"And  his  father,  Joseph,  knew  him  Jesus, 

Jesus  Christ  of  Bethlehem, 
Who  was  lowly  born  within  a  stable 

To  become  the  King  of  men. 

"And  from  out  the  east  came  many  wise  men, 

To  the  manger  of  the  Child ; 
And  among  the  sheep  and  lowing  cattle, 

Saw  a  baby  meek  and  mild. 


408  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"And  this  baby  in  the  manger,  darling. 

Grew  so  sweetly  day  by  day, 
That  he  won  the  love  of  all  around  him 

With  his  pretty  baby  way. 

\ 

"And  he  grew  at  last  in  strength  and  beauty 

To  a  lad  and  then  a  man ; 
And  his  life  so  lowly  and  so  holy, 

Like  a  golden  bow  did  span. 

"And  to  show  the  world  how  well  you  love  him, 
In  your  sweet  and  childish  way, 

We  devote  a  Sabbath  to  the  children. 
Calling  it  a  Children's  Day." 


COME  WITH  ME. 


Come  with  me  across  the  meadow. 
Nature  smiles  for  every  one ; 

Why  so  sad,  when  all  around  us 
Beauties  shine  beneath  the  sun? 

'Tis  the  thought  if  early  Springtime 
Finds  no  joy  within  the  heart ; 

Surely  yours  must  be  a  hard  lot 
If  unwon  by  all  this  art. 

See  the  grass  with  mingled  flowers, 
See  the  brook  soft  winding  through ; 

And  the  panorama  round  us 
Smiling  sweetly  'neath  the  blue ! 

See  the  hills  that  tower  grandly, 
Bugged  mountains  farther  back ; 

And  the  river  winding  sweetly 
Down  its  long  and  snaky  track. 

Every  man  should  be  a  poet, 

Every  maid  a  Muse  of  song ; 
Then  were  earth  a  place  Elysian, 

For  the  thought  paints  right  or  wrong. 

As  you  think  so  seemeth  Nature, 
'Tis  the  mind  that  paints  the  scene ; 

Who  can  love  that  lies  with  fever  ? 
E'en  the  flowers  no  lovely  mien. 


CLV  THE  BRIDGE. 

Health  is  Nature's  truest  artist, 
We  are  Raphaels  every  one, 

When  the  mind  and  heart  in  union 
Laugh  with  beauties  'neath  the  sun. 

So,  my  friend,  you  live  in  sorrow, 
Else  the  landscapes  laughing  round. 

From  the  holy  skies  would  borrow 
Loveliest  scenes  that  there  abound ! 


ON  THE  BRIDGE. 


June  was  laughing  everywhere, 
All  the  world  was  sweet  with  song ; 

And  together  on  the  bridge 
We  watched  the  river  move  along. 

Love  was  dancing  on  the  wave, 

Laughed  and  tumbled  with  the  stream; 
While  our  eyes  together  met 

In  sweeter  hope  than  poet's  dream. 

Not  a  care  came  there  to  mar, 

Every  bird  was  singing  love ; 
And  our  lives  seemed  pure  and  sweet 

As  bended  sky  that  dreamed  above. 

Never  June  more  lovely  seemed, 
Never  bridge  so  fairy  wrought ; 

"And  a  pleasure,"  Cupid  says, 
"There  surely  is  in  being  caught!" 

So  we  dreamed  above  the  dam, 
So  the  even  drowsed  the  scene ; 

Till  we  wondered  how  the  time 
Had  fooled  us  so  with  roguish  mien. 

Never  thinking  that  our  hearts 
Never  thought  had  won  from  time ; 

But  instead  our  hearts  had  grown 
United  till  they  beat  in  chime. 

And  the  stream  below  the  bridge, 
Winding  in  and  winding  out, 


THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

Like  our  lives  had  ever  been, 
With  flowers  and  weeds  along  the  route. 

But  my  maid,  do  not  forbear, 
If  he  says:  "Will  you  be  mine?" 

For  two  hearts  that  live  for  each 
Will  join  the  chorus :  "Mine  and  thine !' 


SWEETER  THAN  A  DREAM 


She  was  sweeter  than  a  dream, 
And  her  merry  eyes  did  gleam 

In  their  joy ; 

And  I  knew  her  fairest  fair, 
With  her  holy  seraph  air 

Shy  and  coy. 

But  a  glance  and  you  would  love, 
If  your  thoughts  were  turned  above, 

She's  so  pure ; 

And  her  native  land  is  France, 
And  she'll  put  you  in  a  trance 

'Yond  a  cure. 

Should  you  dare  to  come  anear 
Where  this  maiden  doth  appear 

In  her  art ; 

For  the  god  of  nature  'rayed 
Just  this  unaffected  maid 

For  your  heart. 

So,  I'd  best  to  go  alone, 

For  your  heart  is  not  your  own 

When  she  comes ; 
But  a  stronger  man  am  I, 
And  I'll  gently  pass  her  by 

When  she  hums 

All  the  ditties  Love  has  told 
Since  he  saw  her  on  the  wold 

In  the  sun : 

And  I'll  hear  her  soft  "tra  la," 
And  I'll  never  ask  her  pa : 

"Is  she  won?" 


SING   ME  A    SONG.  411 

Yes,  J  wed  her  out  of  spite, 
When  the  moon  was  sailing  white 

In  the  sky; 

5So  I'll  never  boast  my  strength, 
For  the  pressure  comes  at  length 

That  will  try ! 


SING  ME  SONGS. 

Sing  me  songs,  and  sing  them  softly, 
Full  of  memories  of  the  past, 

When  my  locks  were  bright  and  golden, 
And  the  future  seemed  so  vast. 

You  are  old,  and  so  the  music 
Will  partake  of  scenes  agone, 

When  we  played  as  boys  together 
In  among  the  tasseled  corn. 

Dearest  friend,  you  well  remember 
Where  the  yellow  pumpkins  grew ; 

Which  the  choicest  in  the  orchard 
Of  the  apples  hung  in  dew. 

Which  the  brook  that  sang  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  lilies  were  the  best ; 

And  the  nook  where  maiden  Mary 
Heard  the  love  that  you  confest. 

Yes,  I  know,  you're  something  older, 
Not  so  quick  to  show  your  heart ; 

But,  my  brother,  tell  me  truly, 
Would  you  have  such  scenes  depart  ? 

You  may  think  these  only  trifles, 
But  to  me,  I  love  them  best ; 

And  to  me  your  songs  you  sing  them, 
These  are  times  the  loveliest. 

Memory  loves  them  as  no  other, 
Youthful  scenes  can  never  go ; 

And  the  simplest  songs  will  tell  them 
In  a  measure  soft  and  low. 

So  my  honest  old  musician, 

Sing  me  of  the  times  of  yore 
When  my  mother  in  my  childhood, 

Like  an  angel  hovered  o'er. 


THOMAS  BECKET. 

Oh  Thomas  Becket,  Becket, 

A  king  shall  ask  of  thee 
The  life  \  our  mother  gave  you, 

Though  Saracen  she  be. 

Four  barons  gray  and  holy 

King  Henry  goadeth  on, 
For  death  must  claim  his  victim 

When  fated  hour  shall  dawn. 

The  man  that  was  a  layman. 

And  after  rose  a  priest, 
The  man  that  loved  the  beauty 

That  crowns  the  sumptuous  feast. 

'Tis  you,  my  Thomas  Becket, 
The  barons  come  to  slay, 

And  Henry  Second  waiteth 
To  see  the  bloody  day. 

And  Canterbury  loses 
The  first  one  native  born, 

Who  since  the  bloody  Conquest 
These  holy  robes  put  on. 

A  king  would  never  honor 
A  common  man  with  death. 

So,  hist !  my  Thomas  Becket, 
Your  life  is  but  a  breath ! 

A  layman,  then  a  deacon, 

A  deacon,  then  a  priest, 
But  when  you  rose  a  bishop 

They  planned  the  bloody  feast. 

So,  watch  as  he  who  loveth 

His  true  elected  bride, 
Yet  such  a  holy  servant, 

How  better  had  he  died. 
412 


THOMAS  SECRET.  413 

The  nobles  are  against  you, 

A  ruler  craves  your  blood ; 
Within  the  shrine  of  Edmund 

How  better  had  you  stood. 

Was't  wise  in  leaving  Burgundy, 

The  holy  fane  of  France? 
Then  England  had  not  laid  thee 

In  death  beneath  the  lance. 

The  people  are  rejoicing ; 

The  borders  of  Touraine 
Have  placed  the  fated  prelate 

Within  the  See  again. 

But  Thomas  Becket,  Becket, 

Thy  heart  shall  rue  the  day 
That  saw  you  hie  from  Fretville 

To  face  a  king  at  bay. 

Four  separate  ways  they  near  you, 

Four  barons  grim  as  Fate ; 
Four  daggers  Hash  to  slay  you, — 

Brave  Becket,  will  you  wait? 

They  gain  the  high  Cathedral, 

You  hear  them  in  the  aisle ! 
That  murderers  here  should  enter, 

Such  holy  robes  defile  ! 

The  evening  shadows  gather, 

The  twilight  makes  a  pall ; 
And  here,  my  Thomas  Becket, 

The  lords  will  make  you  fall. 

Their  soiled  hands  are  on  you, 

They  cannot  drag  you  out ; 
But  Thomas  Becket,  Becket, 

Your  mind  has  not  a  doubt  ? 

They  seize  you  in  the  transept, 

Their  daggers  flash  alike, 
And  there  before  the  altar 

These  barons  dare  to  strike  ! 

And  there  before  St.  Benedict, 

Thy  murderers  see  you  lie ; 
What  holier  place  could  servant 

As  bravely  fall  and  die? 


414  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  time  has  made  the  memory 
A  legend  more  than  truth ; 

But  history,  Thomas  Becket, 
Has  told  us  of  their  ruth. 

So,  Thomas,  Thomas  Becket, 

We  leave  you  unto  Time, 
The  barons  and  their  ruler, 

For  judgement  on  their  crime ! 


THE  SONS  OF  VETERANS. 


Sons  of  veterans,  are  ye  brave  ? 
Do  the  Stars  and  Stripes  that  wave 
All  unsullied  o'er  our  land, 
With  emotions  great  and  grand 
Fill  your  souls  ? 

ii. 

As  the  sons  of  those  that  died, 
Sons  of  soldiers  true  and  tried, 
Do  you  love  the  land  they  gave  ? 
And  defy  above  their  grave 
Every  foe? 

in. 

Are  you  proud  with  pride  of  men, 
Of  the  deeds  that  there  and  then, 
Made  immortal  every  one  ? 
Till  the  Nation:  "Nobly  done  ! 
Nobly,  braves  !" 

IV. 

As  you  stand  above  the  sod 
Sanctified  by  blood  to  God, 
Do  you  feel  the  fires  of  those, 
That  our  Country's  deadly  foes, 
Laid  in  dust  ? 


THE  SON'S    OF    rETERANK. 


Can  you  paint  with  holy  art, 
Wife  and  husband  heart  to  heart, 
He  as  brave  as  she  was  true, 
Daring  death,  and  in  the  Blue 
See  him  march  ? 

vi. 

Can  you  weigh  the  love  that  said : 
"  For  my  native  land  I  shed 
Every  drop  of  honest  blood !" 
And  together  where  they  stood, 
See  them  dead  ? 

VII. 

Sons  of  veterans,  can  you  name, 
Whether  love  or  whether  fame, 
Made  your  fathers  dare  the  foe, 
From  the  hearthstone  bravely  go 
To  the  front? 

VIII. 

What  that  made  them  risk  the  field, 
Where  the  war-horse  madly  wheeled. 
Where  the  Blue  and  where  the  Gray, 
Battled  in  their  mad  array, 
Unto  death  ? 


Love  of  Country  ?  Ah !  too  true ! 
This  that  made  them  don  the  Blue, 
This  that  made  the*m  do  and  dare, 
Die  in  glory  proudly  there, 
On  the  field. 


So,  as  sons  of  those  that  bled, 
Let  the  whole  world  know  you  said : 
"  Fathers,  we  that  bear  your  name, 
Honor  still  your  holy  fame, 
And  your  Cause ! 


XI. 

"  And  till  death  we'll  honor  thee, 
Honor  those  that  you  made  free, 


41(5  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  the  right  hand  offer  all, 
Who  have  seen,  in  Slavery's  fall, 
Justestact!" 


CHILDREN'S  DAY. 

(SECOND    VERSION.) 


Little  children,  as  we  gather 

In  this  merry  month  of  June, 
When  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweetly, 

And  the  world  is  all  in  tune, 
Do  you  think  this  lovely  Sabbath 

Is  a  gift  to  those  that  pray, 
And  to  every  one  that  loves  Him 

On  this  happy  Children's  Day'? 

And  our  songs  and  recitations 

Should  accord  with .  Jesus'  love, 
And  as  tributes  from  the  bosom, 

Unto  Him  they  crowned  above ; 
For  upon  the  Cross  to  save  us 

Did  He  die  in  humble  way, 
So  we  thank  Him  for  the  Sabbath, 

And  this  holy  Children's  Day. 

And  amid  our  songs  and  speeches, 

We  should  bear  His  name  in  mind, 
For  His  life  was  like  the  flower 

That  is  blooming  in  the  wind, 
Clothed  with  beauty  from  the  heavens, 

Sweet  and  humble  in  His  way, 
Till  the  boys  and  girls  in  speeches 

Thank  Him  now  for  Children's  Day. 

And  I  wonder  if  you  love  Him 

With  the  love  He  bears  for  you, 
And  by  faith  you  softly  see  Him 

In  His  home  across  the  blue ; 
By  your  eyes  I  think  you  show  it, 

And  the  notice  that  you  pay, 
While  my  verse  I  try  to  tell  you 

On  this  happy  Children's  Day. 


/'.¥    NO    PATTL  417 

Once  a  year  we  come  together 

In  the  "  leafy  month  of  June/' 
On  a  Sunday  for  the  children, 

With  its  flowers  and  lowly  tune ; 
And  our  parents  round  us  gather 

With  their  smiles  and  locks  of  gray, 
For  within  the  great  Forever 

There  will  come  a  Children's  Day. 

And  my  little  boys  and  maidens, 

If  you  love  your  Saviour  true, 
You  will  find  the  Home  in  Heaven 

That  is  waiting  now  for  you ; 
For  this  hour  is  but  a  lesson 

Unto  every  child,  I  say, 
Of  the  time  when  up  in  Heaven 

We  shall  have  a  Children's  Day  ! 


I'M  NO  PATTL 

I'm  no  Patti,  Sugar  Kiver, 

Still  I  sing  my  songs  of  thee, 
Just  to  please  a  Slasher  tender 

Wooed  of  Muses  artlessly. 

You  have  listened  to  my  singing 
When  the  world  was  thoughtless  cold ; 

And  my  songs  have  found  an  echo 
With  your  songs  so  sweetly  told. 

Burns  was  but  a  bonnie  Plowman, 

Yet  immortal  in  his  rhymes ; 
1  am  but  a  brother  workman 

Stealing  solace  from  his  chimes. 

Will  the  crowds  from  fields  of  labor 
Rear  a  second  Robert  Burns  ? 

Hush,  my  Muse  !  the  rhymster's  question 
But  in  echo  now  returns ! 

Yet,  my  Kiver!   wildly  turning. 
Hurrying  now,  and  winding  slow, 

You  and  I  will  sing  together 
Where  the  flowerets  bloom  and  blow. 


418  THE  LADY  OF  DAE  DALE. 

What  care  we  for  worldly  laurels  ? 

For  an  empty  earthly  crown ; 
Better  die  unknown  in  beauty 

Where  the  fields  are  bare  and  brown. 

Then  some  Patti  may  enshrine  us 
In  her  matchless  song  of  songs ; 

For  my  Keats  was  made  immortal 
Dead,  uncrowned,  amid  his  wrongs. 

Humble  worth  is  more  than  honors 
That  are  made  for  earth  alone ; 

So  the  ones  that  here  are  crownless, 
E'en  a  fairer  crown  may  own. 


WAITING  TO  BE  LOVED. 

See  that  maiden  bending  sweetly 

Like  a  lily  by  the  stream, 
With  her  life  as  full  of  longing 

As  some  holy  poet's  dream. 

She  will  love  and  love  you  fondly 

If  you  love  her  in  return ; 
For  the  God  has  made  her  for  you, 

Don't  abuse  her  if  she  yearn. 

Love  to  her  is  true  as  heaven, 
Plato  thoughts  engross  her  mind ; 

Love  her  with  the  highest  reason, 
Naught  of  baseness  shall  you  find. 

She  will  soft  your  coarser  nature 
With  her  holy  presence  nigh ; 

God  has  made  her  like  an  angel 
Wingless  from  the  vaulted  sky. 

What  were  home  without  her  presence  ? 

All  her  children  cluster  round ; 
But  can  Home  be  Home  without  her, 

She  that  sleeps  in  hallowed  ground  ? 

Once  the  holy  name  of  Mother 
Is  no  more,  no  more, 


/  MUST  SING.  410 

What  a  vacant,  vacant  picture. 
What  a  dark  and  starless  shore ! 

She  was  yours.    You  made  her  holy 

With  the  hallowed  name  of  Wife  ! 
But  it  was  a  Mother  !  Mother  ! 

That  they  clothed  with  holier  Life  ! 

And  you  wed  her  as  an  angel, 

And  you  made  her  bride,  a  Bride  ; 
But  to-day  you  hold  her  memory 

As  a  Mother  that  has  died  ! 


I  MUST  SING. 


I  must  sing  tho'  you'll  not  hear  me. 

For  the  rapture  of  the  mind, 
Finds  expression  when  the  Muses 

Float  aerial  on  the  wind. 

Trees  and  flowers  and  birds  around  me, 
Gall  them  down  from  out  the  skies, 

And  the.wild-birds  far  above  me 
Fill  the  h#art  with  glad  surprise. 

E'en  the  weeds  that  fringe  the  roadside, 
Have  a  beauty  not  their  own, 

When  the  Xine  from  out  the  ether 
Reign  for  me,  and  mine  alone. 

JSo  I  sing  as  sings  the  brooklet, 
As  the  chore-girl  on  the  farm, 

Little  caring  whether  critics 
Love  my  music's  homely  charm. 

For  the  songs  are  born  within  me, 

Unadorned  of  finest  art, 
Yet  with  something  even  finer 

To  be  laid  upon  the  heart. 

Giving  comfort  to  the  lowly, 
Finding  beauty  e'en  in  weeds. 

Till  the  artless  song  has  stolen 
Joy  for  every  heart  that  bleeds. 


420  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Doing  good  is  even  better 
Than  to  sing  the  finest  song, 

For  a  lowly  benefaction 
Falls  upon  the  heart  in  wrong. 

So,  niy  gently  dowered  poet, 
Sing  your  songs  from  out  the  heart , 

And  a  hundred  lives  will  bless  you, 
Tho'  the  critics  curse  your  Art ! 


A  QUESTION. 


Sugar  River  winding  sweetly 
In  anil  out  among  the  hills, 

Do  you  know  a  gentle  poet, 
Rab  of  Scotland's  merry  rills '? 

He  has  sung  of  other  rivers, 
Bonny  Doon  and  laughing  Ayr  ; 

And  his  maiden,  Highland  Mary, 
That  his  love  made  sweet  and  fair. 

And  he  sang  the  Cotter'^evening, 
Of  the  Bible  great  and  grand, 

With  a  rainbow  touch  of  beauty 
Making  Ayr  enchanted  land ! 

Flowers  to-day  are  blooming  o'er  him, 

Doon  and  Ayr  his  lullaby, 
To  the  breezes  softly  singing 

That  so  sweet  a  bard  should  die. 

And,  my  River!  soft  and  sweetly, 
Would  he  sing  you  were  he  here ; 

But  in  Nature's  wildest  beauty 
Sleeps  he  lowly  year  by  year ! 

So,  a  lesser  bard  may  paint  you 
In  the  beauty  of  the  Spring, 

While  the  birds  are  sailing  sweetly 
On  their  bright  empurpled  wing. 

And  in  all  your  sweet  enchantment 
Did  I  paint  you  in  my  verse, 


MY  CREED.  421 


Then  should  be  a  lovely  poem 
That  the  angels  might  rehearse. 

But  my  Burns  to  paint  the  lily. 

And  to  gild  the  finest  gold ; 
So  your  rustic  country-poet 

Half  your  beauty  has  not  told. 


MY  CREED. 

I  believe  there  is  a  Heaven 

Somewhere  made  for  man, 
That  the  faith  of  "We  are  Seven" 

O'er  the  gulf  will  span. 

That  the  one  who  lives  as  lowly 

As  his  heart  shall  say, 
Need  not  fear  a  God  so  holy 

Will  forget  that  Day. 

That  the  man  who  loves  his  neighbor 

As  a  neighbor  should, 
Will  his  earth-deeds  end  in  labor 

Rounded  into  good. 

He  can  move  the  ribbed  mountains 

Weighing  on  his  life, 
Make  the  hillside  stream  with  fountains 

Void  of  blood  or  strife. 

War  shall  be  a  bloody  vision 

Honored  in  the  past, 
Love  shall  make  the  earth  Elysian, 

"Loveliest  and  the  last." 

Then  were  here  on  earth  if  ever, 

Truest  Heaven  above, 
Pictures  of  the  great  Forever 

In  the  realms  of  Love ! 

Then  were  here  our  long-lost  Eden 

Of  our  mother  Eve, 
And  the  slaves  should  have  their  freedom, 

With  no  voice  to  grieve. 


422  THE  LA  D  Y  OF  DA  It  DALE. 


to  man  should  be  as  equal, 
Here  on  earth  below, 
And  the  Heaven  of  heavens  the  sequel 
When  they  murmur:  "Go!" 


WHEN  FRIENDS  ARE  GONE. 


How  sweet  to  feel  when  friends  are  gone, 

And  every  social  tie, 
That  Hope  is  white  above  the  clouds, 

And  beckons  you  on  high. 

How  sweet  to  feel  as  days  go  past, 

And  glimmers  not  a  spark, 
That  Hope  and  Faith  together  wed 

Can  see  beyond  the  dark. 

How  sweet  to  feel  when  men  arise 

To  crush  our  holy  Book  ;— 
A  hundred  years  have  passed  away, — 

In  vain  for  them  we  look. 

How  sweet  to  feel  that  tho'  the  Word 
Is  false  as  false  can  be,  * 

There  never  yet  was  such  a  guide 
That  man  could  offer  thee. 

How  sweet  to  feel  when  in  your  doubt 
This  Book  can  give  you  hope, 

And  with  a  soft  angelic  touch 
The  heavenly  door  may  ope. 

How  sweet  to  feel  that  more  and  more 
Its  friends  still  gather  round, 

And  those  that  live  yet  look  beyond 
The  graveyard's  narrow  bound. 

How  sweet  to  feel  the  loftiest  plain 
The  doubting  wise  men  reach, 

Is  far  below  the  glittering  height 
The  holy  Book  may  teach. 


THE  BAUD.  423 


So  follow  still  the  sacred  Word 
Till  better  shall  be  found, 

And  you  will  die  in  faith  that  spans 
Beyond  the  churchyard  mound! 


THE  BARD. 


O  my  Bard !  by  Nature  laureled, 
Why  these  holy  songs  of  of  thine  ? 

Were  thy  harpstrings  up  in  Heaven 
Put  in  harmony  by  the  Xine  ? 

Friend  of  bards  and  lowly  singers, 
Can  you  tell  why  rosy  maids, 

Steal  the  heart  from  out  the  bosom 
When  a-gypsying  Cupid  raids'? 

In  his  cage  the  dumb  canary 
Makes  no  voice  for  half  the  day, 

While  the  woods  across  the  meadow 
Ring  with  carols  wild  and  gay. 

He's  a  bard  that  sings  as  natural 
As  the  wild-bird  in  the  dell, 

Pouring  forth  in  rapturous  mu.sic 
In  a  joy  no  heart  can  tell. 

Cage  the  wild-bird,  half  the  rapture 
Dies  from  out  his  matchless  song, 

For  he's  lone  within  his  prison 
Where  no  merry  mock-birds  throng. 

So  the  bard  en  crowned  of  Nature, 
Sings  his  songs  as  she  has  taught. 

Hardly  knowing  how  he  does  it, 
Why  lie  sings  or  singeth  not. 

Take  your  pen  and  if  your  fancy 
Maketh  weeds  like  flowerets  grow, 

Then  shall  steal  the  numbers  to  you 
In  a  rhythm  soft  and  low. 


424 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  the  song  will  half  surprise  you 
With  its  beauty  rare  and  choice, 

When  you  hear  no  more,  no  longer,- 
That  enchanting,  dreamy  Voice. 


THE  LOST  RING. 


LITTLE  GEACIE'S  SEARCH. 


Little  Gracie's  lost  her  ring, 
Can't  you  help  her  find  it? 

For  she's  such  a  little  thing 
Surely  you'll  not  mind  it. 


/  SAW  A    FLOWERET.  425 

'Twas  the  gift  of  Tommy  Gray. 

And,  O  dear,  she's  lost  it ; 
Can't  you  tell  her,  little  maid, 

Where  some  one  has  tost  it  ? 

She  has  looked  in  every  place, 

In  her  trunk  of  patterns ; 
And  who'll  say  that  Gracie  was 

Ranked  among  the  slatterns  ? 

There  it  is  upon  her  head 

Where  she  lately  found  it, 
Resting  softly  in  her  hair 

With  her  ribbon  round  it. 


I  SAW  A  FLOWERET. 


I  saw  a  floweret  by  the  stream 

All  friendless  and  alone, 
And  like  a  picture  in  a  dream 

Its  beauty  was  its  own. 

It  grew  where  Nature  wild  and  grand 
Had  known  no  tawdry  Art, 

But  with  its  beauty  in  the  land 
Had  won  the  poet's  heart. 

Its  sole  companions  were  the  weeds 

That  half  its  glory  hid, 
But  like  our  bright  unconscious  deeds 

Knew  not  the  good  it  did. 

I  looked  upon  it  as  a  god 

Among  a  lesser  race, 
And  crowned  it  there  upon  the  sod 

A  flower  of  matchless  grace. 

And  so  it  is  with  every  deed 
The  poorman  has  performed, 

It  seems  at  first  a-like  the  weed 
By  Nature  uniformed. 

A  senseless  thing  that  has  no  worth 
In  any  walk  of  life. 


426  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  forms  a  baser  part  of  earth 
Where  things  are  wed  to  strife. 

But  little  weed  and  little  flower, 
Now  standing  side  by  side, 

You  teach  the  heart  there  is  a  Power 
That  made  you  and  shall  guide. 

You  are' the  rich  man  and  the  poor, 
The  poor  man  and  the  rich, 

Now  ponder  each  one  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tell  me  which  is  which. 


PATCHES. 

I  saw  him  walking  sad  and  lone 

Where  Fashion  reigned  supreme, 
A  little  ragged  barefoot  lad, 

With  many  a  patch  and  seam. 

*• 
He  had  the  ways  of  one  who  came 

From  lowly  haunts,  and  drear, 
And  in  his  eye  I  thought  I  saw 

The  slowly  falling  tear. 

His  hat  was  torn  and  at  its  edge 
Hung  many  a  straggling  shred, 

But  clustering  there  the  golden  curls 
Were  dancing  round  his  head. 

His  coat  was  rent,  his  sleeve  was  torn, 

A  ragged  lad  was  he, 
But  still  a  heart  I  know  he  has 

Whoever  he  may  be. 

For  not  the  clothes  that  make  the  man, 

The  cut  or  style  of  dress ; 
And  even  in  a  ragged  suit 

A  homely  life  may  bless. 

Some  mother  lone  and  gray  in  years, 

May  find  the  ragged  boy 
A  little  king  with  power  to  bring 

A  mother's  only  joy. 


LOVE  SOMETHING.  427 

So  don't  belie  him  for  the  seam, 

The  patches  hanging  down ; 
A  world  of  love  is  shining  from 

His  face  so  bare  and  brown. 

We  little  know  who  he  may  be, 

The  boy  of  patches  now : 
For  'neath  his  time-worn,  tattered  hat 

There  beams  a  noble  brow ! 


LOVE  SOMETHING. 

E'en  though  it  be  a  tiny  weed 

That  hails  no  passer-by, 
For  hearts  that  live  and  never  love 

Are  living  but  to  die. 

They  know  no  hope  the  lover  has, 

The  maiden  in  her  teens ; 
The  father  in  his  cottage  home 

Where  weeping  willow  leans. 

The  mother  by  her  cooing  babe 

In  twilight's  rosy  hour, 
The  grandame  gray  with  look  serene, 

To  see  Love's  holy  power. 

They  live  for  self  and  self  alone, 

Without  the  boon  of  love, 
E'en  very  misers  that  have  died 

With  eyes  unturned  above. 

A  blessed  thing  it  is  to  love, 
Tho'  prince  or  lord  thou  art, 

For  never  was  a  holier  gift 
From  out  the  human  heart. 

So,  love  the  weed,  or  love  the  flower, 

The  vine  upon  the  wall, 
For  what  a  precious  age  'twould  be 

If  love  were  lord  of  all ! 

And  then  should  be  a  happy  land, 
A  haven  on  the  earth, 


428  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

To  us  the  soft  reflection  of 
That  higher,  holier  birth ! 

So  love,  my  friend,  for  love  will  make 
A  heaven  within  the  heart, 

And  leave  a  picture  when  you  go, 
Encrowned  of  holv  art. 


HOW  SWEET  TO  THINK. 

How  sweet  to  think  when  friends  are  gone, 

And  all  the  world  is  drear, 
There  yet  is  something  far  beyond 

The  things  we  cherish  here. 

How  sweet  to  think  the  earth  may  fade, 

And  vanish  like  a  dream, 
That  yet  a  boatman  loved  and  pale, 

Will  row  us  o'er  the  Stream. 

How  sweet  to  think  that  tho'  the  stars 

May  fall  from  out  the  skies, 
There  yet  will  be  a  presence  left 

E'en  brighter  in  our  eyes. 

How  sweet  to  think  the  sun  may  set, 

And  never  rise  again, 
A  loving  Hand  remains  to  guide 

Us  safely  o'er  the  main. 

How  sweet  to  think  tho'  Chaos  come 

Once  more  upon  the  earth, 
A  perfect  and  a  holy  Judge 

Will  weigh  us  at  our  worth. 

How  sweet  to  think  beside  the  grave 

Of  every  dearest  friend, 
That  death  is  all  that  stands  between, 

And  only  shows  the  end. 

And  but  the  end  of  earth's  career 

To  every  human  kind, 
And  points  the  door  to  those  of  faith, 

Who  otherwise  were  blind. 


A  SONG  OF  HOME.  429 

For  through  the  grave  your  friends  must  pass 

To  holier  vales  than  this, 
And  when  they  die  breathe  au  revoir, 

Beneath  your  parting  kiss ! 


A  SONG  OF  HOME. 

A  song  of  Home  is  sweeter  far 

Than  any  song  we  sing, 
For  when  old  age  comes  stealing  on 

Its  memories  round  us  cling. 

And  far  away  upon  the  sea 

Where  billows  loudly  roar, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last  to  us, 

Our  dear  old  native  shore.        » 

Tho'  on  the  mountain's  jagged  height, 

In  far  Italian  climes, 
The  songs  of  home  come  floating  there 

In  sweet  and  holy  chimes. 

We  feel  at  last  the  sacred  ties 

That  bind  us  heart  to  heart, 
When  on  the  doorstep  of  our  home 

We  come  at  last  to  part. 

You  leave  the  workshop  with  its  friends, 
Where  everything  seems  dear, 

But  when  you  leave  your  own  true  home 
Unconscious  falls  the  tear. 

No  place  like  home  the  poet  sang 

From  out  a  humble  heart, 
And  surely  in  his  song  he  made 

It  shine  above  all  art. 

So,  merry  child,  and  thoughtless  youth, 

And  old  man  gray  in  years, 
Remember  still  the  holiest  spot 

Is  where  your  home  appears ! 

The  hallowed  place,  the  humblest  haunt, 

Wherever  you  may  roam, 
The  dearest,  best,  the  holiest  spot, 

Your  dear  old  native  Home ! 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM 


Spring  was  blooming  sweetly  fair, 
Birds  were  songful  in  the  air, 
Kine  were  lowing  in  the  field. 
Springtide  music  softly  pealed. 

Down  beside  the  winding  road 
Such  a  merry  brooklet  flowed, 
That  you  knew  the  Spring  was  there 
Blushing  in  her  golden  hair. 

O  the  joy  of  Love's  Young  Dream, 
Where  the  birdlings  brightly  gleam. 
And  old  Nature  twined  in  bays 
Laughed  in  wild  romantic  ways ! 

Do  I  blame  the  rosy  maid 
If  young  Love  has  sweetly  'rayed, 
Crowned  her  like  the  Queen  of  May, 
And  her  heart  has  stole  away  ? 

Every  maid  that  falls  in  love, 
Fluttering  like  a  wounded  dove, 
Has  no  cause  for  mother's  blame, 
Or  the  rosy  blush  of  shame. 

Once  she  blooms  a  flowery  bride, 
More  than  all  the  world  beside, 
To  the  husband  of  her  heart, 
Then  she  lives  a  higher  part. 

And  a  mother  she  has  grown. 
E'en  a  higher  part  does  own. 
With  a  holier  love  confest, 
With  her  babe  against  her  breast. 

This  is  then  her  highest  part, 
When  the  children  of  her  heart, 
Round  the  picture  to  its  full, 
Baby  hands  as  soft  as  wool. 
430 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM.  481 

So  you  see  them  in  the  shade, 
Amorous  youth  and  love-eyed  maid. 
He  the  soul  of  truth  and  love, 
She  an  angel  from  above. 

She  is  young,  and  sweet  sixteen, 
Where  the  vines  are  twining  green, 
Standing  like  an  artless  flower 
In  the  rosy  twilight  hour. 

He  is  plainer,  has  no  art, 
But  the  love  that  mans  his  heart, 
More  accounteth  in  her  eyes 
Than  the  wealth  of  Paradise. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  O  how  trite! 
Yet  the  moon  so  pale  and  white, 
Smileth  not  because  his  eyes, 
Shining  bluer  than  the  skies, 

Overbrim  with  quenchless  love, 
For  the  maid  that  stars  above, 
Worship  from  their  field  of  blue, 
Saying :  "Maid,  he  loveth  you ! 

"We  have  seen  this  many  a  year, 
Seen  the  bitter,  heart-rung  tear ; 
And  the  moon  with  broader  light, 
Shone  more  radiant  in  the  night, 

"When  true  lovers  'neath  her  beam, 
Lived  and  loved  in  Love's  young  dream ; 
And  the  world  may  think  it  old, 
And  the  maid  you  dressed  in  gold, 

"Trite  as  time ;  but  ne'er  despair, 
Paint  her  'fair,  and  faultless  fair," 
Woo  her  '  'neath  the  hawthorn  green,' 
Dress  her  up  in  golden  sheen ; 

"And  the  world  indulge  a  smile, 
Let  them  rave,  with  tongue  revile, 
Once  we  saw  then  'neath  the  shade 
Whispering  to  a  rosy  maid! 

"They  are  old,  and  growing  gray, 
Let  them  laugh,  and  laugh  away, 
Love  was  once  their  master,  too, 
Now  they  rave  and  laugh  at  you. 


432  ,  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"Let  them  rave,  and  let  them  laugh, 
Did  we  tell  you  only  half, 
How  they  wooed  beneath  the  shade, 
Till  your  light  began  to  fade. 

"You  might  join  them  in  their  jeer, 
With  a  laugh  from  ear  to  ear, 
Point  your  finger,  say :  Tra,  la ! 
Why  art  married?    Ha,  ha,  ha!' 

"We  have  seen  them  gray  as  bats, 
Fifty  years,  the  sly  old  rats, 
Smirking,  smiling  in  our  light, 
Talking  love  for  half  the  night. 

"Old  enough  for  better  sense, 
But  their  love  seems  more  intense, 
And  their  shining,  gray  bald  head, 
Seems  to  shine  when  they  would  wed, 

"Like  an  ivory  billiard-ball, 
'Neath  the  lamplight  in  the  hall, 
Till  you  know  'neath  stars  above, 
Fifty  years  can  fall  in  love ! 

"So  you'll  woo  her  as  you  choose, 
And  her  heart  she  won't  refuse, 
If  old  Cupid  shot  as  good 
As  the  archer,  Robin  Hood !" 


BESIDE  THE  GRAVE. 


The  garden  rose  had  faded  tehre, 
The  moss  was  on  her  stone ; 

But  what  a  pity  one  so  fail- 
Was  sleeping  there  alone. 

And  why  so  fair  ?    Because  I  saw 

The  marks  of  truest  love ; 
But  each  had  bowed  to  death's  cold  law 

And  now  were  gone  above. 

I  knew  her  loved,  I  knew  her  fair, 
Else  why  the  relics  round 


AUTUMN. 


AUTUMN. 

That  Love's  own  hand  could  fashion  there 
Above  the  hallowed  mound  ? 

For  many  years  T  knew  him  dead, 

Else  why  the  moss  so  gray  ? 
The  rose  he  planted  there  instead, 

It  bloomed  for  many  a  day. 

But  there  the  weeds  and  wild-flowers  grew, 

Above  the  sunken  mound ; 
And  naught  refreshed  them  but  the  dew, 

The  rains  that  pattered  round. 

The  signs  were  there  in  carved  stone, 

The  fancy  iron  rail, 
A  lover's  heart  found  there  alone 

A  place  to  weep  and  wail. 

But  years  had  mouldered  side  by  side 

The  one  that  loved  her  true, 
And  she  that  might  have  been  a  bride 

When  life  was  fresh  and  new. 

But  ah !  how  many  a  grave  I  find 

That  tells  the  same  sad  tale ; 
But  Faith  is  there.    I  am  not  blind, — 

I  see  beyond  the  Vale. 


AUTUMN. 

Now  has  come  the  golden  harvest, 

Now  has  come  the  golden  grain; 
See  the  children,  men  and  women,— 

Soon  will  come  the  laboring  wain  ; 
For  old  Autumn,  gray  and  hoary, 

Bows  beneath  his  yellow  load ; 
For  the  raindrops  and  the  sunshine 

All  their  freighted  wealth  bestowed. 
Till  the  fields  are  ripe  and  golden, 

Till  the  fields  are  loaded  down 
With  a  harvest  for  the  kingdom 

In  the  old  home  by  the  town ; 
For  if  any  man  a  kingdom, 

29 


434  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

'Tis  the  farmer  blessed  of  God, 
With  a  homestead  'mid  his  acres, 

For  his  gold  lies  'neath  the  sod ; 
And  no  man  can  take  his  kingdom, 

And  no  man  usurp  his  crown ; 
For  from  out  that  holier  Kingdom 

All  his  blessings  shower  down. 


TO  MY  MUSE. 


Patience,  little  rural  maiden, 
'Neath  the  hawthorn  and  the  yews, 

I  became  your  bonnie  lover, 
You  became  my  bonnie  Muse. 

And  we  twined  the  fragrant  laurel, 

Making  such  a  little  crown, 
That  we  laughed  as  if  a  Cupid 

From  the  tree  was  smiling  down. 

And  a  jolly  time  together, 

'Neath  the  hawthorn  and  the  yew ; 
I  was  like  a  silly  lover 

Thinking  all  the  world  of  you. 

And  together  in  the  shadows 
Of  the  hawthorn  and  the  tree, 

We  were  singing  soft  and  sweetly 
Of  the  future  that  might  be! 

For  I  loved  you  like  a  poet, 

Even  more  than  lover  true ; 
And  I  told  you  in  my  fancy 

That  my  songs  were  all  for  you. 

And  I  promised  'neath  the  hawthorn, 
And  the  gently  bended  yews, 

That  the  world  should  come  to  know  you 
As  a  Slasher  tender's  Muse ! 

For  amid  the  haunts  of  labor, 
Like  another  Robert  Burns, 


YOU  FLATTERING  POET. 

Did  I  tell  you  I  would  love  you, 
Love  you  constant,  not  by  turns. 

But  the  world  has  never  heard  us, 
Tho'  we  sung  with  all  our  might ; 

Yet  a  little,  lovely  maiden, 
And  our  ship  will  hail  in  sight ! 


YOU    FLATTERING  POET. 


Just  a  word,  my  flattering  Poet, 
All  this  nonsense  you  have  told, 

How  you  wooed  and  won  and  loved  me, 
And  would  dress  me  up  in  gold. 

That  the  world  would  crown  together 
Her  sweet  Bard  arid  lovely  Muse ; 

And  it  sounded  like  a  party, 
Sugar  party  'neath  the  yews. 

And  you  threw  your  arm  around  me, 
'Xeath  the  hawthorn  and  the  tree ; 

And  your  soft  and  sweet  professions, 
'O I  think  the  world  of  thee  1' 

And  I  listened  to  your  ditty, 
And  I  thought  another  Burns 

Was  to  crown  a  queen  of  Poesy 
With  the  lovely  bays  and  ferns. 

And  my  heart  it  beat  responsive, 
And  I  loved  you  for  your  song ; 

And  I  thought  a  rustic  maiden 
Such  a  bard  would  never  wrong. 

And  I  stood  beside  the  Slasher, 
And  I  watched  you  while  you  wrote : 

And  the  noise  from  wheel  and  gearing 
Like  a  lovely  song  did  float. 

But  the  world  has  never  wondered, 
Never  once  has  thought  of  me ; 

And  a  pretty  story  was  it? 
'O  I  think  the  world  of  thee !' 


THE  LADY  OF  DA1WALE. 

And  your  ship  is  but  a  castle, 
"But  a  castle  in  the  air;" 

And  a  pretty  piece  of  nonsense, 
Is  your  maid  with  golden  hair ! 


THEN  FARETHEEWELL. 


Then  farewell,  O  lovely  maiden ! 

Faretheewell  if  we  must  part ; 
But  our  lives  once  torn  asunder, 

It  will  break  the  poet's  heart ! 

For  together  in  the  springtime, 
When  the  flowers  were  blooming  fair, 

Did  we  wander  o'er  the  meadow, 
Did  we  build  our  castle  there. 

Little  caring  for  the  morrow, 

Little  thinking  of  the  time, 
When  the  world  so  far  outside  us 

Might  find  beauty  in  our  rhyme. 

For  our  Poesy's  lowly  numbers 
Fell  like  incense  on  the  heart, 

Till  the  muse  had  wed  the  poet 
In  his  rustic  country  art. 

Till  the  muse  had  wed  the  poet. 

Till  the  poet  wed  the  muse ; 
Till  the  oaten  reeds  of  shepherds 

Were  a-piping  'iieath  the  yews. 

So  my  bonnie,  bonnie  maiden, 
So  my  bonnie,  bonnie  maid, 

Don't  reject  your  bonnie  lover 
In  the  bonnie,  bonnie  shade. 

For  the  world  is  cold  and  heartless, 
For  the  world  is  heartless  cold, 

And  they  fail  to  see  your  beauty, 
Tho'  I  dress  you  up  in  gold ! 


YOU  ARE  A   LOVELY  TALKER.  487 

So  you'll  wait  a  little  longer, 

And  I'll  place  you  at  the  head ; 
As  Columbia's  rarest  maiden 

That  the  rustic  poet  wed ! 


YOU   ARE  A    LOVELY  TALKER. 


O  you  are  a  lovely  talker, 

With  the  honey  of  the  bee ; 
And  the  wild-bird  is  no  sweeter 

In  his  song  upon  the  tree. 

And  you  loved  me  thro'  the  winter, 
And  you  loved  me  in  the  spring ; 

And  the  air  was  full  of  music 
From  a  harp  of  golden  string. 

And  I  listened  to  your  numbers, 

And  your  lowly  rustic  song ; 
And  I  thought  the  world  would  love  you 

Ere  the  days  were  overlong. 

For  your  art  was  like  the  brooklet 
That  has  sung  for  Burns  alone ; 

With  a  vein  of  mournful  sadness 
In  the  harp  you  loved  to  own. 

But  the  days  they  grew  to  summer, 
And1  the  autumn  winds  were  drear; 

And  the  snows  were  on  the  mountain, 
But  your  ship  did  not  appear. 

And  the  years  were  rolling  onward, 

And  the  poet  yet  unknown, 
Was  beneath  the  spreading  yew-tree, 

With  his  bonnie  maid  alone ! 

And  the  stars  were  cold  above  us, 
And  the  skies  were  dull  and  blue ; 

But  my  little  rustic  poet 
Not  a  one  had  thought  of  you ! 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Yet,  O  yet !  I  cannot  leave  you ! 

For  I  love  you  as  you  are ; 
And  across  the  eastern  heavens 

I  can  see  a  rising  Star! 


HOW  JOHN  PROPOSED. 


"Good  evenin',  John,"  said  good  old  Farmer  Brown, 
His  broad  moon  face  with  wrinkles  runnin'  roun', 
Lookin'  the  soul  of  goodness.    "How  de  deau ; 
I  thought  I  herd  yer  tred.    It  must  be  yeau, 
Sez  I ;  but  somethin'  ails  our  John.    Yer  tred 
Was  kinder-like  unsarti-i.    One  who  hed 
Our  best  respec's,  John,  wouldn't  har  fumbled  so 
In  comin'  thro'  our  great  hall  door,  yer  know. 

"But  lay  yer  hat  aside,  and  take  a  chair; 
The  evenin's  cool,  John.    Yes,  right  over  there 
I  once  proposed  to  Nancy's  mother.    Start 
I  see  yer  deau ;  but  there  she  gave  her  heart 
Jest  where  yer  set.    I  see  yeau  blush ;  e'en  I 
Was  bashful  then.    But  there  I  did  it.    Try  ? 
I  came  here  twenty  times  or  more.    At  last 
I  mustered  courage. — Parson  tied  us  fast. 

"And  then  the  world  was  Paradise.    A  cow 
Was  all  she  hed  as  dow'ry.    Lord  knows  how 
We  kep'  the  wolf  away.    But  I  was  strong ; 
And  yeau  believe  me,  John,  it  warn't  long 
Afore  we  hed  this  leetle  farm  on  tick ; 
And  'twere  a  puzzle,  too,  e'en  to  old  Nick, 
How  fast  the  mortgage  melted.    But,  friend  John, 
She  was  a  very  Queen  writh  aprun  on! 

"And  Nancy.    She,  John,  came  to  help  us  bear 
Our  burdens.    Bindin'  heart  to  heart.    The  care 
Of  her  hed  taught  us  patience,  and  our  love 
Grew  stronger. — Nancy  ?    Yes,  a  leetle  dove 
From  out  the  sky.     And  you'll  a  *ree,  of  course ; 
For  as  the  friend  of  Farmer  Brown,  the  source 
Of  love  were  fountain  false  that  could  not  see 
All  homely  virtues  in  tli3r  lovely  Nancy. 


HOW  JOHN  PROPOSED.  439 

"But,  John,  yer  sick?    Tho'  maybe  what  I  say 
Is  tirin'.    Nancy's  ma  is  out.    To-day 
She  went  to  Deacon  Eland's.    If  Nancy'll  deau, 
I'll  hitch  the  old  mare  up,    And  she  and  yeau 
Can  kinder  keep  the  candle  trimmed ;  and,  John, 
You'll  stay  till  I  git  back.    With  bubbles  on, 
The  cider's  in  the  mug.    I'll  call  my  Nan, — 
And  here  are  apples  picked  by  her  own  han'. 

"Now,  Nanny,  here  is  John,  our  neighbor's  boy, 

An  honest  lad.    You'll  take  my  place.    I  joy 

To  see  an  upright  man  in  these  fast  days ; 

But  every  age  has  its  peeculiar  ways.— 

The  fire.    It  won't  go  out.    If  so  it  should. 

You'll  find  right  there  some  logs  of  hard  oak  wood. 

So,  now  good-by."    And  down  the  Autumn  road 

The  loud  "Hud-ups"  sound  where  the  brooklet  flowed. 

And  Farmer  Brown  went  jogging  on.    A  tune 
His  love-days  knew,  brought  back  an  old  time  June, 
When  Nancy's  mother  was  a  fair  young  maid, 
He  wooed  and  won  when  corn  was  in  the  blade. 
And  gray  old  Bess  kept  time  with  the  old-time  song, 
While  he  and  she  went  jogging  slow  along ; 
And  came  the  stars  and  blinked  upon  the  scene ; 
The  winds  grew  strong.    The  air  was  cold  and  keen. 

As  farmers  will,  the  hour  was  somewhat  late, 
When  "Whoa !"  stopped  the  old  mare  right  at  the  gate ; 
But  dark  as  pitch  was  Farmer  Brown's  abode, 
He  scarce  could  see  the  grass  that  lined  the  road ; 
And  Nanny's  ma  said  "Hush!"  as  Farmer  Brown 
Uttered  a  "by-word"  as  he  clambered  down, 
And  caught  his  left  foot  in  the  tangled  reins, 
Muttering  "that  some  folks  didn't  have  any  brains!" 

A  flickering  match  soon  lighted  up  the  room, 
And  there,  O  dear !  across  the  partial  gloom, 
Old  Farmer  Brown  and  Nanny's  good  old  ma, 
Indulged  together  in  aloud  "ha-ha!" 
For,  do  believe  it,  all  the  fire  was  out, 
The  candle  flickered  from  its  greasy  spout, 
And  Brown  said  something  then  about  a  "sheep," 
For  there  sat  Nan  and  John  both  fast  asleep ! 


MY  MOTHER. 


Who  can  read  a  mother's  heart, 
Love  her  in  her  lowly  part, 
As  a  son  or  daughter  should, 
Who  has  known  her  to  be  good ? 

When  I  think  of  mother's  cares, 
Of  her  holy,  whited  hairs, 
Of  her  life-work  unrepaid, 
Do  I  wonder  she  will  fade? 

That  already  years  have  told 
"Silver  threads  among  the  gold," 
Painted  on  her  noble  brow 
Furrows  that  I  number  now? 

( 'an  I  see  her  as  I  ought 
In  her  sweet  and  bitter  lot, 
Picture  all  her  doubts  and  fears 
Thro'  the  long  and  weary  years? 

Children !  what  a  mother  bears, 
What  a  mother  does  and  dares, 
In  her  bright  and  sad  career, 
To  a  child  may  not  appear. 

And  to  Heaven  alone  must  she, 
Look  for  things  she  cannot  see, 
For  the  great  reward  to  come 
When  the  years  shall  take  her  home. 

You  may  think  you  love  her  well, 
Ami  you  do,  but  till  the  bell 
Sounds  at  last  across  the  wold, 
Was  your  love  so  sweetly  told  ? 

Once  a  mother  is  no  more, 
And  the  last  sad  rites  are  o'er, 
Then,  and  then  alone  you  see 
All  her  love  and  purity! 
440 


MY  MOTHER.  441 

Children !  I  am  older  now, 
Love  your  mother  ere  her  brow, 
With  the  wrinkles  here  and  there, 
Looks  so  holy  and  so  fair ! 

Fair,  because  so  sweetly  pure, 
When  the  angels  seem  to  lure, 
Far  from  out  the  holy  sky, 
To  a  brighter  realm  on  high ! 

Yet  a  father  you  may  own, 
But  a  mother  is  alone 
Far  above  him  in  her  sphere, 
Swaying  like  an  angel  here ! 

Did  I  speak  from  out  the  heart, 
I  should  say :  "To  me  thou  art 
More  than  mother  unto  me, 
Tho'  your  worth  I  do  not  see. 

"And  I  know  I  ne'er  shall  pay 
Half  the  debt  I  owe  to-day, 
For  a  mother's  love  is  more 
Than  her  children's  o'er  and  o'er ! 

"But,  my  Mother!  know  my  heart 
Half  its  love  can  not  impart, 
And  at  times  I  hold  aloof, 
Yours  is  still  the  sweetest  roof! 

"Yours  is  still  the  happiest  home, 
And  my  footsteps  from  it  roam, 
Still  on  earth  it  is  to  me 
Sweeter  far  because  of  thee !" 

And  the  poorhouse  ?  O  not  so  ! 
Children !  will  you  let  her  go? 
God  forbid !    Her  holy  hair 
More  appealeth  than  a  prayer! 

Think  of  hours  when  death  was  nigh, 
With  the  teardrops  in  her  eye, 
How  she  watched  thro'  day  and  night 
O'er  your  form'so  still  and  white ! 

How  her  sweet  benignant  face, 
Like  an  angel  in  the  place, 
Hovered  like  a  fluttering  dove, 
With  its  wealth  of  Mother's  love ! 


442  777 E  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Then  when  years  have  turned  her  gray. 
Left  her  halting  by  the  way, 
Turn  your  back  upon  the  past ! — 
O  the  love  that  can  not  last ! 

And  the  mother  once  so  good, 
Loving  as  a  mother  could, 
Place  her  in  the  Poorhouse  there, 
With  her  face  so  heavenly  fair! 

Can  you  ?  can  you  ?    God  forbid ! 
Rather  'neath  the  coffin  lid 
Would  you  look  upon  her  face 
With  its  holy,  heavenly  grace ! 


WHO  WILL  CARE  FOR  MOTHER  NOW? 


Who  will  care  for  mother  now? 
Who  will  kiss  her  holy  brow  ? 
Love  her  in  the  years  to  come. 
When  the  moss  is  on  her  Home  ? 

She  has  done  a  mother's  duty, 
And  her  life  has  been  of  beauty ; 
All  her  children  loved  her  truly, 
Tho'  the  boys  were  once  unruly. 

Who  could  fill  a  mother's  place, 
With  her  meek,  forgiving  face, 
Rock  the  cradle  aye  and  aye, 
Never  tired  from  day  to  day ! 

Yet,  my  child,  you  do  not  see, 
She  is  tired,  though  patiently 
Like  an  angel  from  the  skies, 
Sits  she  there  with  watchful  eyes. 

But  the  years  have  rolled  away, 
And  her  duty,  day  by  day, 
She  has  done  as  only  can, 
Loving  mothers,  little  man  ! 


WHO   WILL   CAKE  FOE  MOTHER  NOW?  443 

But  your  father  she  has  laid 
Where  the  flowerets  bloom  and  fade ; 
Tears  were  in  her  sweet  blue  eye,— 
One  by  one  the  loved  ones  die. 

Then  her  heart  seemed  nearly  broken, 
Every  hour  was  but  the  token 
Of  the  joys  that  once  were  there, 
In  the  home-scene  faultless  fair. 

Then  a  wedding  took  away, 
Sweet,  fair  Margaret,  loved  and  gay, 
Leaving  such  a  vacant  spot, 
Bitter  seems  a  mother's  lot ! 

Then  the  baby  of  her  heart ; 
Cruel  death  that  made  them  part ! 
Xow  he  sleeps  among  the  flowers 
Thro'  the  long  sweet  summer  hours. 

She  is  looking  through  the  past, 
Blooming  flowers  will  fade  at  last; 
Two  green  graves  are  in  the  scene,  - 
Once  she  danced  upon  the  green. 

Round  her  porch  the  flowerets  grew, 
She  had  twined  them  when  the  blue, 
Not  a  star  had  fallen  out, — 
Rang  her  children's  merry  shout. 

"Here  is  where  my  children  played!" 
And  the  light  does  slowly  fade ; 
O'er  her  face  the  shadows  come, 
She  a  mother !  and  so  dumb ! 

Rob  has  sailed  the  foaming  sea ; 
"Is  he  dead?"    "O  it  may  be  !" 
And  alone  she  waiteth  there 
In  her  holy,  faded  hair ! 

But  the  years  are  going,  going, 
Salt  sea  breezes  softly  blowing 
Fetch  no  wandering  Rob,  the  sailor, 
She  is  fading,  none  bewail  her ! 

Strangers  came  and  smoothed  her  pillow, 
"Has  my  Robby  crossed  the  billow?"  , 

Only  "Xo!"  and  only  -'Xo,  dear  !" 
Then  the  sadly  falling  slow  tear. 


444  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Then  the  light  was  fading,  fading, 
Stranger  hands  were  soothing,  aiding, 
And  the  candle  flickered,  sputtered, 
"Is  he  come?"  was  all  she  uttered. 


HAVE  MUSIC  IN  YOUR  HOMES. 


For  music  has  a  power  to  charm 

The  social  circle  round, 
And  floating  there  upon  the  air, 

Makes  home  enchanted  ground. 

It  softens  down  the  harshest  mind, 

It  soothes  the  soul  of  all, 
A  heaven-born  guest  from  out  the  skies 

In  gentle  strains  to  fall. 

It  fills  with  joy  the  social  hour, 

Temptation  drives  away ; 
It  keeps  the  wayward  youth  at  home 

Beneath  its  gentle  sway. 

It  has  the  power  to  win  the  mind 
To  earth's  more  lovely  things, 

A  precious  boon  from  out  the  skies, 
A  dove  with  snow-white  wings. 

It  never  tires,  but  still  as  sweet 

It  echoes  here  and  there, 
Till  every  heart  responsive  breathes 

Its  own  sweet  holy  air. 

And  home  is  rendered  dearer  far, 

Diviner  in  its  art, 
When  music  like  an  angel  strain. 

Steals  softly  to  the  heart. 

O  Music  sweet !  of  Heaven  born ! 

How  holy  is  thy  sway, 
The  Poet  lays  his  pen  aside, 

The  bird  forgets  his  lay ! 


THE  CEITIC. 

The  world  seems  flitting  like  a  star, 
A  charm  steals  o'er  the  brain, 

For  all  are  wrapt  within  the  spell 
Of  Music's  witching  strain ! 


THE  CRITIC. 


I  would  find  the  coming  Poet, 
Where  to  look  I  hardly  know ; 

Six  have  graced  our  lovely  borders. 
Three  have  gone  where  flowerets  blow. 

In  the  churchyard  you  will  find  them, 
'Mid  the  flowers  they  loved  so  well ; 

Making  Nature  even  sweeter 
Now  with  her  they've  gone  to  dwell. 

One  that  caroled  of  the  woodland, 

Of  the  holy  and  sublime ; 
Teaching  us  in  Thanatopsis 

Life  and  death  should  sweetly  chime. 

Others,  too,  in  lovely  diction, 
From  the  Cultured  scholar's  desk, 

Sang  the  homely,  lowly  fireside, 
Like  a  sweetly  wandering  Esk. 

One  was  brilliant ;  I  forgive  him, 
His  a  weird,  a  wayward  mind ; 

Burns  wasjswayed  by  every  feeling, 
He  was  swayed  by  every  wind. 

Three  are  living ;  let  us  cherish, 

In  this  lovely  land  of  ours, 
Each  sweet  life  till  death  has  made  them 

Even  sweeter  'mid  the  flowers. 

And  the  harp  they  touched  so  lightly, 
And  the  crown  they  wore  so  well, 

Let  us  place  them  with  our  treasures 
When  we  say  our  last  farewell! 


446  THE  LAD  Y  OF  BAUD  ALE. 

And  with  pious  love  enshrine  them 
Till  a  worthy  bard  shall  come, 

Heir  in  Poesy  of  the  Singers 
Death  so  sweetly  beckoned  Home ! 


DEATH. 


They  told  me  that  Death 
Was  a  horrible  breath, 

That  blasted  the  flowers  of  Spring, 
To  low  and  to  high, 
Like  a  curse  from  the  sky, 

It  fell  with  a  blackened  wing. 

The  diamond  stars  were  flashing  bright, 
The  watchful  moon  shone  calm  and  white, 
Sky  and  cloud  were  still  as  death, 

Sky  and  cloud,  sky  and  cloud, 

As  life  were  dead  in  a  starlight  shroud ; 
And  not  a  zephyr,  and  not  a  breath, 
'Twas  silent  all  as  a  silent  death ; 
And  Nature  there  in  moonlight  lay, 
A  mellower  form  of  gaudy  day ; 

And  palace,  and  hall,  and  hut, 

And  palace,  and  hall,  and  hut, 
Hose  here  and  there  like  a  silent  town, 
Where  Death  had  come  and  mowed  them  down, 

Tenant  and  master,  chief  and  lord! 


THE  PEN  AND  BARD. 


"O  pretty  bard  !  O  lovely  bard  ! 

Say  something  sweet  of  me, 
And  you  shall  win  the  prize,  i  know, 

For  I'm  the  pen,  you  see, 
That's  mightier  than  the  sword !' 


THE  PEN  OF   GENIUS. 


"Your  name  I  can't  recall, 

My  little  nattering  pen, 
But  once  I  get  you  in  the  ink, 

You  average  one  of  ten, 
Your  name  and  worth  I'll  know." 

PEN. 
"My  maker's,  that  is  all  they  ask, 

Just  try  me,  that  is  fair, 
And  then  like  honest  judge  proclaim: 
'You're  matchless,  I  declare  ! 

And  King,  a  King  Steel  Pen  !'  " 


"Now  critics,  judges,  bards,  and  men, 

Old  Esterbrook's,  I  know, 
Is  just  the  very  best  pen  out, 

And  I  am  sure  and  slow, 
In  giving  my  opinion ; 
But  here's  a  stranger  claiming  more 

Than — Heavens  !    Just — just  look  ! 
A  perfect  Pen  I  do  declare  ! 

And — Zounds !  an  Esterbrook  ! 


THE  PEN  OF  GENIUS. 


While  reed-pens,  quill-pens,  steel-pens,  too, 
Still  reign  alone  by  right  of  worth, 

The  stylus,  and  the  proud  gold  pen, 
The  Pen  of  Genius  springs  to  birth ! 

The  "Whittier"  pen,  that  o'er  them  all 
Will  trace  the  smoothest,  clearest  line, 

And,  like  the  Quaker  poet's  muse, 
Will  write  in  numbers  half  divine ! 

The  quill-steel-pen,  with  arching  point, 
That  brings  old  Homer  back  to  life, 

To  see  this  new  and  wondrous  pen, 
That  needs  no  constant  use  of  knife ! 


44S  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

It  is  of  steel,  and  yet  the  quill 
Seems  moving  soft  beneath  the  hand, 

And  from  the  gray  old  past  recalls 
The  masters  once  that  made  it  grand 

O  Genius!  you've  combined  in  one 
All  perfect  pens  that  come  of  skill ; 

And  in  the  hand  of  friend  or  foe, 
"Pis  better  far  than  gold  or  quill ! 

And  proud  should  old  Columbia  be, 
That  such  a  Bard  can  give  his  name— 

The  last  one  of  the  illustrious  three, 
And  Bard  and  Pen  be  one  to  Fame! 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GRAY, 


They  made  him  Captain  of  the  Gray, 
He  fought  the  Blue  for  many  a  day, 
In  the  War. 

Upon  a  Southern  soil  he  stood, 
We  saw  him  charging  thro'  the  flood 
On  the  foe. 

He  knew  the  North  had  been  his  friend, 
But  all  his  love  was  now  at  end 
In  the  strife. 

He  did  not  question  right  or  wrong, 
Upon  his  lips  a  martial  song 
Nerved  his  arm. 

He  led  the  bravest  of  the  Gray, 
The  Blue  was  slowly  giving  way 
In  his  path. 

'Twas  valor  stirred  his  noble  soul, 
And  there  the  drumhead's  random  roll 
Moved  his  blood! 

Now  just  in  front  his  brothers  were, 
His  Southern  heart  applied  the  spur. — 
"Charge  the  Blue!" 


CAPTAIN   OF    THE    GRAY.  449 

The  Banner  with  its  stars  and  bars, 
In  blood  now  kissed  the  Stripes  and  Stars 
On  that  field. 

The  muskets  rattled,  cannon  brayed, 
It  seemed  another  "Light  Brigade" 
Charged  the  foe. 

The  sulphurous  smoke  in  clouds  hung  there, 
The  horrid  battery  stormed  the  air, 
On  that  day. 

O  what  a  wild  chaotic  mass! 

0  god  of  War,  alas,  alas ! 

That  they  died. 

No,  hardly  could  I  tell  to  you 
Now  which  was  gray  or  which  was  blue, 
In  the  smoke. 

1  knew  that  every  man  was  brave, 

That  Stars  and  Stripes  at  last  would  wave 
Over  all. 

For  Justice  crowned  the  Boys  in  Blue, 
I  knew  they'd  pull  the  old  Ship  thro', 
At  the  last. 

I  loved  the  Captain  of  the  Gray, 
For  all  his  valor  op  that  day, 
Tho'  my  foe. 

He  thought  his  cause  was  just  as  right 
As  those  that  met  him  in  the  fight 
On  that  time. 

But  now  the  Captain's  old  and  gray, 
And  many  a  scar  he  shows,  they  say, 
Of  that  battle. 

And  age  has  changed  his  Southern  view ; 
"Ah,  yes!  I  fought  the  Boys  in  Blue, 
To  the  death. 

"But  when  I  look  thro'  twenty  years, 
My  old  gray  eyes  are  brimmed  with  tears, 
Could  it  be? 

"They  told  us  things.— Can  great  men  lie? 
Then,  comrades,  can  you  tell  me  why 
It  seems  strange  ? 


450  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

"The  Southern  cause  could  not  to-day 
Make  me  once  more  put  on  the  Gray, — 
I  have  changed. 

"And  let  a  veteran  say  to  you, 
My  valorous  boys  that  wore  the  Blue, 
It  was  wrong. 

"Arid  now  I  know,"  the  Captain  said, 

"That  tho'  we  fought  and  nobly  bled, 

'Some  one  blundered !' 

"The  bloody  War  should  not  have  been, 
The  strife  was  simply  kin  with  kin, 
Unto  death. 

"But  let  us  pity  those  that  fell, 
And  honor  in  our  last  farewell, 
The  Blue  and  Gray  !" 


NOTHING  BUT  FLAGS. 

Nothing  but  Flags— but  simple  Flags ; 

Tattered  and  torn  and  hanging  in  rags ; 

And  we  walk  beneath  them  with  careless  tread, 

Nor  think  of  the  host  of  the  mighty  dead 

That  have  marched  beneath  them  in  the  days  gone  by, 

With  a  burning  cheek  and  a  kindling  eye, 

And  have  bathed  their  folds  with  their  young  life's  tide, 

And  dying,  blessed  them,  and  blessing,  died. 

Nothing  but  Flags !  yet  methinks  at  night 
They  tell  each  other  their  tales  of  fright ! 
And  dim  spectres  come,  and  their  thin  arms  twine 
'Round  each  Standard  torn,  as  they  stand  in  line. 
As  the  word  is  given — they  charge !  they  form ! 
And  the  dim  hall  rings  with  the  Battle's  storm, 
And  once  again  through  the  smoke  and  strife, 
These  colors  lead  to  a  Nation's  life. 

Nothing  but  Flags — yet  they  are  bathed  in  tears; 

They  tell  of  triumphs — of  hopes — of  fears; 

Of  a  Mother's  prayers — of  a  Boy  away ; 

Of  a  serpent  crushed — of  a  Coming  Day, 

Silent,  they  speak— and  the  tear  will  start, 

As  we  stand  beneath  them  with  throbbing  heart, 


NO Tlliy G    BUT  FLAGS. 

And  think  of  those  who  are  ne'er  forgot — 
Their  Flags  came  home— why  came  THEY  not? 

Nothing  but  Flags— vet  we  hold  our  breath, 
And  gaze  with  awe  at  these  types  of  Death ! 
Nothing  but  Flags — yet  the  thought  will  come, 
The  heart  must  pray  though  the  lips  be  dumb ! 
They  are  sacred,  pure,  and  we  see  no  stain 
On  those  dear  loved  Flags  come  home  again, 
Bathed  in  blood — and  purest,  best ; 
Tattered  and  torn,  they  are  now  at  rest. 


NOTHING  BUT  FLAGS.* 

Nothing  but  flags  all  tattered  and  frayed, 

Nothing  but  flags  in  their  beauty  arrayed, 

Yet  soldier  of  Blue  and  soldier  of  Gray, 

How  sad  is  the  story  they  tell  of  the  Day, 

When  the  hearts  of  the  people  were  beating  in  woe, 

And  the  Nation's  rich  blood  in  a  torrent  did  flow! 

Nothing  but  flags  all  tattered  and  torn, 
Nothing  but  flags  that  our  heroes  have  borne, 
Yet  mother  and  father  now  gray  in  your  years, 
Your  old  sad  eyes  are  filling  with  tears, 
For  the  emblems  of  Victory  that  rose  in  the  strife, 
Now  tell  the  sad  tale  of  a  dear  lost  life ! 

Nothing  but  flags  now  seamed  in  the  red, 

Nothing  but  flags  that  waved  o'er  the  dead, 

But  Battle  has  torn  them  and  struck  at  the  stars ; 

O  bonnie  sweet  Flags  that  rose  o'er  the  Bars, 

And  waved  at  the  cheers  of  the  Boys  in  Blue 

When  Grant  into  Richmond  like  a  bomb  burst  thro' ! 

Nothing  but  flags  now  waving  no  more, 
Nothing  but  flags  from  a  conquered  shore, 
Tattered  and  torn  by  the  rebel  shot. 
But  their  deeds  in  the  heart  are  never  forgot, 
For  we  cherish  them  now  as  we  cherished  them  then, 
When  they  waved,  ah,  so  proudly,  at  head  of  our  men ! 
*Through  mistake  the  poem  preceding  this  was  publicly  attributed  to  me,  so  1 
have  reproduced  it  here  with  verses  under  the  same  title. 


452  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Nothing  but  flags  with  a  gash  in  the  blue, 
Nothing  but  flags  where  the  shot  went  thro', 
Yet  dear  to  the  heart  as  the  babe  of  the  breast, 
Are  the  dear  old  flags  in  their  beauty  confest ; 
Yet  silent  they  mingle  in  hallowed  array, 
The  emblems  so  holy  of  the  deeds  of  that  Day ! 

Nothing  but  flags  with  blood  on  the  white, 

Nothing  but  flags  that  gloom  on  the  sight, 

Yet  dear  to  the  heart  my  bonnie  old  Flags, 

Tho'  the  rebels  have  shot  you  to  tatters  and  rags, 

For  you  rose  like  a  star  o'er  the  field  of  the  dead, 

Where  the  best  blood  of  our  heroes  in  valor  was  shed  ! 

Nothing  but  flags  !  O  God  of  the  skies  ! 

Nothing  but  flags  to  the  tearwet  eyes  ! 

Yet  holy  they  are  to  me  and  to  you, 

For  many  a  brave  soldier  that  fell  in  the  Blue, 

Was  wrapt  in  their  folds,  once  waving  so  proud, 

And  laid  in  the  ground  with  a  flag  for  his  shroud ! 

So,  hallow  the  memory  of  the  old  battle  flags, 
For  mute  they  appeal  from  their  tatters  and  rags ; 
Keep  them,  love  them,  cherish  them  aye, 
They  rose  in  the  fight  when  the  Blue  met  the  Gray, 
And  taught  the  wide  world  America  shall  be 
"The  land  of  the  brave  and  the  home  of  the  Free !" 


DEAD 


"Stop  !  I  say  !"  the  voice  rang  loud ; 
"See  her  dead  cold  face  !"    He  bowed : 
"Father  ?    Yes,  she  was  my  child ; 
Sweet  and  loving,  tender,  mild ; 
All  the  world  was  less  than  she ; 
Rob,  he  loved  her.    It  may  be 
They  will  marry.    But,  O  Wave  ! 
Well-nigh,  well-nigh,  wert  her  grave  !' 

And  the  sun  went  sinking  down ; 
"That  so  fair  a  maid  should  drown!" 
Said  the  people.    Evening  fair ; 
One  by  one  the  stars  came  there ; 
And  the  moon  with  mellow  eye 
Shone  with  pity  from  the  sky ; 
But  the  father  ! — only  gloom, 
Only  woe  at  Lilian's  doom. 


THE   LITTLE  SINGERS. 

On  the  waves  beneath  the  stars, 
Merry  lovers  sang  "tra  las ;" 
Boats  went  skimming  'neath  the  blue, 
Flowers  were  bending  in  the  dew, 
Rang  the  laughter  with  the  stream ; 
"Ha,  ha,  ha,  a  fairy's  dream!" 
And  my  Lilian  !  other  maids 
Cupid  tried  with  prankish  raids. 

"O  my  God  !  the  dank  sea  weed 

Blinds  the  eye  that  may  not  plead  ! 

And  he  left  her  !    Cruel  Love 

Art  forever  flown  above  ? 

Such  is  life.    They  woo  and  win, 

On  the  tomb :  'It  might  have  been  !' " 

And  his  gray  hairs1  in  the  night 

Lent  his  brow  a  strange  weird  light. 

And  his  fainting  form  at  last,  , 
(Where  the  waves  had  loving  cast, 
"Airy,  fairy  Lilian's"  form, 
And  the  winds  were  moaning  from 
Hidden  caves,)  there  fell  as  dead; 
As  in  death  the  twain  seemed  wed ; 
Merry  laughter  struck  the  ear; 
With  the  dewdrops  fell  the  tear. 

Boating  lovers  on  the  waves 
Had  no  thought  of  two  new  graves 
Shining  in  the  moonlight.    There 
In  the  graveyard  Lilian  fair, 
And  her  father,  side  by  side. 
She  that  Rob  had  made  a  bride. 
Such  is  life.    And  hand  in  hand 
Joy  and  Woe  go  thro'  the  land! 


THE  LITTLE  SINGERS. 


Sweet  musicians,  hear  them  singing, 
Singing,  singing  like  the  birds, 

All  their  rustic  music  pealing 
To  the  sound  of  happy  words. 


454 


THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 


THE   LITTLE  SINGERS. 


THE    OLD,     OLD    STORY.  455 

ii. 
But,  my  reader,  are  they  happy  ? 

Do  they  sing  for  joy  alone  ? 
Is  the  music  born  within  them, 

Falling  there  in  rapturous  tone? 

in.  • 

Listen,  listen  she  is  singing, 

Though  a  baby  seeming  yet ; 
But,  mayhap,  she  has  no  mother 

That  will  fondle  and  will  pet ! 

IV. 

He  may  fiddle  in  his  smiling, 

She  may  sing  with  glowing  eye, 
Yet  I  venture  that  their  shelter 

Is  the  great  blue  dome  on  high ! 


Who  can  tell  me  ?  tho'  the  pillars, 
Massy  built  from  hoarded  gold, 

Frown  upon  them,  as  if  saying : 
"We  have  stood  till  we  are  old, 

VI. 

"Just  to  show  what  Wealth  is  doing, 
Wealth  has  done  these  many  years, 

While  the  little  street  musicians 
Still  may  sing  amid  their  tears. 

VII. 

"For  they  sing  not  as  the  birds  sing 
Down  beside  the  wooded  way, 

But  that  Hunger  may  not  greet  them 
When  the  evening  veils  the  day!" 


THE  OLD.  OLD  STORY. 

Nothing  could  he  see  in  her, 
Just  as  sweet  the  bitter  myrrh, 
True,  she  was  a  pretty  maid, 
Where  the  rose  of  May  had  stayed, 
But  a  hundred  women  there 
Seemed  to  him  as  sweet  and  fair. 


456  THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

She  could  nothing  see  in  him, 
And  a  picture  far  and  dim, 
Showed  a  hundred  just  as  good, 
Showed  a  courtship  in  a  wood, 
Showed  a  city  full  of  men, 
Any  one  was  good  in  ten. 
• 

Cupid  heard  their  pretty  talk, 

Sitting  on  a  hollyhock, 

And  he  smiled  a  little  smile ; 

"I  am  blind,  but  wait  awhile, 

I  can  see  a  thing  or  two, 

Old  gray  beard,  and  so  can  you  ! 

"Love  was  once  in  Eden  fair, 
Biggest  rogue  was  ever  there ; 
Since  that  apple-eating  time, 
He  has  gone  from  clime  to  clime ; 
When  they  won't,  he  says  they  will!" 
And  the  hollyhock  was  still. 

She  had  seen  him  once  before, 
He  had  met  her  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  Coney  Island  waves' 
Sing  their  grand  melodious  staves, 
And  he  thought  her  "passing  fair," 
Much  like  any  maiden  there. 

"But,"  says  Cupid,  "look-a-here, 
i  can  make  a  trickling  tear 
On.a  Roman  nose  a  gem, 
Crown  her  with  a  diadem, 
And  a  jewel  she  will  be 
Unto  love,  I  do  agree." 

Thus  the  thoughts  of  each  one  ran, 
And  the  drama  there  began ; 
Comedy  ?    Yes,  I  do  avow, 
Full  of  tricks,  and  what  and  how ; 
Tragedy?    Yes,  to  those  that  played, 
"Airy  nothing,"  I'm  afraid. 

But  the  prompter  says :  "Take  care ! 
In  the  Green  Eoom  sweet  and  fair, 
Lies  a  slipper  soiled  and  old, 
That  will  turn  to  reddest  gold, 
When  Aladdin  with  his  light 
Turns  night  to  day  and  day  to  night. 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY.  457 

And  the  play  is  moving  on, 
But  they  laugh  the  play  to  scorn ; 
"What  an  act  with  doughty  parts 
Is  this  game  of  winning  hearts!" 
But  the  little  Cupid  boy 
Shot  his  arrows,  mad  with  joy. 

He  that  met  her  by  the  waves, 
Singing  old  and  Runic  staves, 
Met  her  on  Manhattan  beach, 
And  a  look  from  each  to  each, 
Told  a  tale  that  Cupid  saw, 
Old  as  hills,  and  strange  as  law. 

Darling  summers  slipped  away, 
Hoary  winters  grand  and  gray, 
Clothed  the  wold  in  spotless  white, 
In  an  armor  dressed  the  height, 
On  the  mountain  held  his  throne, 
Where  the  winds  do  sigh  and  moan, 

And  he  loved  the  glittering  scene, 

In  the  rapids  of  Lachine,— 

But  no  matter  where  he  was, 

By  some  strange  unsolved  laws, 

Whether  here  or  there  he  strayed, 

His  thoughts  were  on  the  "Nut  Brown  Maid." 

"Really !"  and  he  twirled  his  chain, 
"Something's  buried  in  my  brain, 
Never  known  to  me  before, 
And  it  'grows  from  more  to  more/ 
Till  in  day  or  even's  light 
Shines  a  figure  sweet  and  white !" 

Yes,  a  figure !    Ha,  'tis  so, 
Love  will  ever  banter  so, 
But  the  fates  have  made  it  so— 
"Who  he  is  I'd  care  to  know!" 
And  she  stood  before  the  glass 
Sweet  as  any  "Highland  lass." 

Cupid  meanwhile  fired  his  darts — 
"O  the  game  of  breaking  hearts!" 
And  a  cruel  little  god ! 
All  the  air  was  "Maud,  Maud,  Maud !" 
Till  he  said :  "You  little  rogue, 
All  your  talk  is  broadest  brogue! 


458  TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

"And  your  gem,  and  Koraan  nose, 
And  your  diamonds  on  the  rose, 
Dewdrops  likened  to  her  tears ; 
I  have  known  her  years  and  years, 
And  I  could  not  love  her  so 
Did  she  not  outmatch  the  bow!" 

"Pshaw!  he  cannot  see  a  fault, 
In  her  gait  a  trifling  halt, 
On  her  face  a  Roman  nose, 
On  her  cheek  the  faded  rose, 
For  old  Cupid  with  his  dart 
Made  her  Queen  in  Roman  art." 

Once  again  the  grand  old  waves 
Sing  their  sad  melodious  staves, 
And  on  Coney  Island  sand, 
Walk  they  softly  hand  in  hand, 
All  unconscious  people  stare 
At  the  maiden  "passing  fair." 

Now  they  sit  beside  the  fire, 
She  in  sweet  and  comely  tire, 
He  with  slippers  on  his  feet, 
In  his  wild  and  country  seat, 
And  the  fireplace  roaring  there 
Sends  a  ruddy  homelike  glare. 

"But  for  Captain  Cupid,  ha  ! 
In  this  little  Trafalgar, 
All  the  forces  would  have  failed ; 
But  the  Captain  lightly  mailed, 
Like  another  Nelson  fought, 
Till  they  tied  the  Gordian  knot!" 


TO  THE  SLASHER, 


You  and  I  have  been  companions 
Many  a  long  and  dreary  week ; 

Not  a  shred  we  knew  of  Latin, 
Not  a  half  a  line  of  Greek. 


TO    THE   SLASH  EH.  459 

But  we  couched  our  border  lances, 

And  the  tourney-lists  we  sought ; 
And  we  struck  for  native  English, 

While  the  pronouns  bravely  fought. 

But  a  hardy-browed  mechanic, 

Did  we  trip  on  many  a  verb ; 
And  the  nouns  like  wild  Mazeppas 

Caracoled  without  a  curb. 

So  the  parts  of  speech  like  Modocs, 

Went  a-skulking  here  and  there ; 
Getting  in  the  strangest  places, 

Till  they  drove  us  to  despair. 

And  our  history  like  our  grammar, 

Was  as  ready  for  the  fray ; 
And  old  Scotland  went  to  Ireland, 

And  old  Ireland  moved  away. 

Waterloo  was  fought  in  Holland, 

And  Thermopylae  in  France; 
And  the  fray  of  Seven  Oaks,  sir, 

Did  they  fight  it  with  a  lance ! 

And  the  battle  of  Bull  Run,  too, 

Saw  the  brave  Italians  fall ; 
And  America  was  a  fortress, 

With  her  ancient  Roman  wall. 

And  our  Grant  was  king  of  England, 

And  Victoria  lived  in  Rome ; 
Burns  was  plowing  by  the  Danube, 

And  the  Alps  had  gone  from  home. 

Homer  courted  Highland  Mary, 

Dante  sang  of  Ireland's  woe ; 
Red  wine  in  a  "silver  tassie" 

To  Caucasian  lips  did  flow. 

Thomas  Moore  was  in  a  Harem, 

And  an  Oriental  king ; 
And  the  last  sweet  Rose  of  Summer, 

To  its  thorny  perch  did  cling. 


460  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Yankee  Byron  was  a  Corsair 

In  an  Adriatic  sea ; 
And  the  Duke  with  great  Napoleon, 

Was  a-stalking  by  the  Dee. 

But  my  big  and  noisy  Slasher, 
With  your  noisy  whirling  gears ; 

All  our  luck  with  grammar,  history, 
Is  enough  to  bring  the  tears. 

Yet  I  cannot,  sure,  forget  you, 
For  you  lined  my  "flaccid  purse ;" 

And  we  turned  an  honest  penny 
While  the  Muses  did  rehearse. 

Time  may  show  the  "silver  lining" 
Of  the  cloudlet  in  the  sky ; 

Then  my  unambitious  Slasher, 
Must  we  say  our  last  Good-bye ! 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

And  fellow  mortal.  —Burns. 

"Oh,  wad  some  power  the  #if  tie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel's  as  others  see  us!" 

— "To  a  Louse. 


Hay,  ye  little  chap,  what's  up  ? 

Look  before  you  leap  next  time ; 
For  a  little  skit  like  you 

Art  nay  worth  a  poet's  rhyme. 

But  you've  come  a  long  way  up, 
Hundred  feet,  I  doubt  me,  more ; 


THE  GRASSHOPPER.  461 

So  I'll  put  you  in  a  verse, 
While,  my  friends,  the  critics  snore. 

They'd  not  venture  here,  I  trow, 

Only  poets  dare  to  climb ; 
And  a  hoppergrass  like  you, 

Caught  at  last  within  a  rhyme. 

Seven  flight  of  stairs  the  years 

Saw  the  duck-leg  poet  mount ; 
But  we'll  sip,  my  rural  friend, 

From  the  Heliconian  fount. 

This  is  nectar  from  the  spring 

On  old  Delphi's  cloudy  top ; 
This  is  Pegasus,  my  dear, 

Yes,  my  little  grasserhop. 

Mount  him,  never  such  a  steed, 

Wild  Mazeppa  seems  so  tame ; 
Byron  had  this  steed  in  view  • 

When  Mazeppa  fled  for  fame. 

But  so  strange  that  you  should  come 

From  the  hayfield  and  the  corn  ; 
For  you  are  the  very  first, 

Just  as  sure  as  you  are  born ! 

Did  you  hear  me  piping  soft 

In  the  size-room  all  alone  ? 
Even  such  as  you,  I  think, 

Love  the  rural  harpstring's  tone. 

Seven  years  with  weary  leg 

Has  the  poet  climbed  the  stair ; 
Piping  while  the  Slasher  run, 

To  the  heated  Dressroom  air. 

And,  my  chit,  you  are  the  first 

That  has  sought  the  unknown  bard ; 
Yet  I  have  no  cushioned  chair, 

But  a  bench  that's  low  and  hard. 

But  my  little  jerky  chap, 

Legs  and  wings  above  your  back ; 
Critics  seldom  find  the  bard 

Walking  in  a  scholar's  track. 


462  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Here's  our  country  big  with  brains, 
Bursting  with  its  wealth  of  mind ; 

Yet,  my  little  jumping-.] ack, 
No  great  Poet  do  we  find. 

Critics  stand  with  hat  in  hand 
At  the  arched  college  door ; 

AVhile  a  Burns's  rustic  harp 
Wins  the  world  f orevermore ! 

Genius  seldom  crowns  the  lord, 
Little  jumping  jack-of-apes ; 

For  does  Patience  try  the  heart 
With  a  thousand  varied  shapes. 

Genius  in  a  tattered  coat 
Boldly  throws  the  gauntlet  glove ; 

And  the  signal :  "To  the  fray  !" 
Wins  with  Patience  and  with  Love. 

» 

But  my  hopping  hoppergrass, 
Thousand  blessings  on  your  head ; 

For  the  country  Slasher  poet 
To  the  world  is  good  as  dead. 

So  he  welcomes  to  his  shrine, 
In  the  garret  of  the  mills, 

Any  rural  rustic  chap 
Loving  brooks  and  babbling  rills. 

But  you  little  wee-eyed  chit, 
With  a  "body  lang  and  long," 

If  you'll  "trip  it  on  the  toe," 
I  will  pipe  a  dancing  song. 

There  you  go ;  now  right  and  left, 
Down  the  centre ;  drive  the  blues ; 

For  you  "tread  a  merry  measure" 
With  the  Salsher  tender's  Muse! 

Forward,  back ;  now  all  hands  round,  - 
There's  the  millbell ;  waltz  to  seat ; 

But  the  query  comes  to  mind : 
"When  again  shall  we  three  meet?" 


SIR  CRITIC. 


"But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind."— Lord  Tennysou. 

Please  now,  Mr.  Critic, 

See'f  my  harp's  in  tune ; 
For  the  babbling  brooklets 

Sing  a  song  to  June. 

And  they  sing  so  natural 

That  I'd  mimic  them ; 
Then  my  rustic  harp,  sir, 

Would  your  guild  condemn  ? 

See  that  pretty  cradle 

With  its  babe  of  snow ; 
Shall  I  tune  my  harpstring 

To  a  ditty  low? 

Or  in  classic  cadence 

Move  the  raptured  cords ; 
For  they're  sweeter,  dearer, 

Then  our  titled  lords  ? 

Pipes  the  matin  skylark 

Far  among  the  clouds ; 
All  his  songs  he  flingeth 

Thro'  his  vapory  shrouds. 

From  his  heart  he  singeth, 
Would  you  have  him  strain ; 

And  a  trifle  classic 
Be  in  his  refrain  ? 

I've  no  art,  Sir  Critic, 

Yet  I  sing  my  stave ; 
Would  you  kill  the  wildbird 

By  the  sad  sea  wave  ? 
463 


464  THE  LADY  OF  DAE  DALE. 

"In  the  crannied  wall,"  sir, 
Is  a  modest  flower ; 

He  that  dares  to  pluck  it 
Takes  away  its  power. 

See  that  rose  upon  her, 
She  that  lieth  dead ; 

Has  it  lost  its  beauty  ?—  • 
Angel  rose  instead ! 

There's  a  bird-nest  hanging 
On  a  leafy  bough ; 

Art  had  made  it  better, 
Shall  I  rob  it  now  ? 

Unaffected  beauty 
Wins  the  heart  of  all ; 

So  the  nest  is  sweeter 
In  its  cloudy  hall. 

Is  the  greatest  painter 
He  that  painteth  true  ? 

He  that  paints  a  sky-scene, 
With  a  sky  as  blue? 

Is  the  greatest  poet 
Born  and  never  made  ? 

On  the  Harp  of  Delphi 
Burns  the  sweetest  played ! 

Scholars  throng  our  nations, 
Born  of  high  degree ; 

Every  tint  of  rainbow 
In  their  art  they  see. 

Fame  has  crowned  the  poet 
Wiih  the  hi -he.  t  ir.<  **•'. , 

Here's  a  lowly  si  <'i  hem 
Piping  on  his  reed. 

Art  has  never  known  him, 
Nature  tunes  his  lay ; 

He  a  Scottish  mavis, 
Pipes  and  pipes  away. 

Something  in  his  bosom, 
Something  in  his  soul, 

Seems  to  shape  the  numbers 
To  a  perfect  whole. 


SIH  CRITIC.  ±65 

How  he  does  it,  Nature 

Holds  the  secret  yet ; 
Tell  me,  Mr.  Critic, 

For  the  Harp's  my  pet. 

Did  he  sing  more  classic 

Books  would  be  his  guide  ; 
Then  the  maid  of  Delphos, 

Would  she  be  his  bride  ? 

See  the  bard  of  Cambridge, 

What  a  perfect  Art ; 
Yet  he  never  reaches 

To  the  human  heart ! 

Boasted  Education, 

Poesy  makes  you  bow ; 
Else  your  million  scholars 

Sang  as  poets  now. 

Music,  too,  and  sculpture, 

And  the  painter's  art; 
For  these  four  are  Genius, 

Born  within  the  heart. 

Do  I  differ,  Critic, 

From  accepted  codes? 
I  prefer  the  wild  flowers 

Skirting  country  roads. 

You  may  love  the  hot-house 

With  its  flowerets  pied ; 
Give  me  rosy  Nature 

In  the  world  outside. 

Yes,  I  know  your  business 

Is  to  cut  and  prune ; 
Give  me  weeds  and  flowers 

Tangled  up  in  June. 

See  the  Slave  of  Powers, 

Neck,  and  nose,  and  chin ; 
And  "one  touch  of  Nature 

Makes  the  whole  world  kin." 

31 


466  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

But  he  fails  in  Nature, 
Statue  lacketh  shame ; 

Had  he  chiseled  truer 
Anguish  in  her  frame. 

Numbers  cold  and  classic 
Come  from  highest  art ; 

Down  beside  the  brooklet 
Wildbirds  touch  the  heart. 

So  I  think,  Sir  Critic, 
Tho'  I  love  your  skill ; 

I  will  sing  as  natural 
As  the  babbling  rill. 

This  an  empty  Art-age, 
Numbers  squared  and  pruned 

I  prefer  the  viol 
By  the  muses  tuned. 

Read  the  chiseled  verses 
By  a  scholar's  hand ; 

You  can  hear  the  chisel 
Echoing  thro'  the  land. 

But  the  bard  of  Nature 
Sculptures  from  the  heart ; 

Making  up  in  sweetness 
What  he  lacks  in  art. 

One  is  stony  statues 
In  a  classic  church ; 

Other,  Nature's  songsters 
In  a  silver  birch. 

So  with  all  respect,  Sir, 
For  your  perfect  art ; 

I  prefer  the  numbers 
Welling  from  the  heart. 

So  my  Harp  be  covered 
With  the  moss  of  time ; 

Let  me  twine  it  sweetly 
In  my  bashful  rhyme. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MUSE.  467 

Then  I'll  be  remembered 

Long  as  wildfiowers  grow ; 
Tho'  the  daisies  o'er  me,* 

Moulder  where  they  blow! 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MUSE. 

"It  seems  an  after-dinner  talk 
Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine." 

—Lord  Tennyson. 

MUSE. 

"Let  me  ask  you,  gentle  poet, 
Do  you  think  you  use  me  right ; 

Tho'  you  deck  my  hair  with  lilies, 
And  you  dress  me  up  in  white  ?" 

POET. 
"But  J  thought  you  were  converted 

Unto  every  act  of  mine ; 
And  you  long  ago  confessed 

All  rny  numbers  were  divine." 

MUSE. 
"But  I'm  getting  more  impatient 

As  the  years  go  rolling  by ; 
For  a  Slasher  poet's  maiden, 

May  she  never,  never  die?" 


"There's  a  man  that  goes  to  college, 

There's  a  fisher  by  the  pool ; 
But  my  little  rosy  darling, 

Mine's  a  different  kind  of  school. 

"Both  of  these  may  show  their  patience, 
And  surmount  the  highest  goal ; 

But  my  tender  Delphic  maiden, 
Mine  are  diamonds  in  the  soul. 

"Only  Genius  can  obtain  them, 

'Tis  a  rugged,  rugged  mine ; 
But  the  jewels  that  I  gather, 

Are  alone  for  thee  and  thine." 
*Keats. 


468  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

MUSE. 

"But  your  style  it  is  so  different, 
Why,  sir,  don't  you  sing  like  Burns, 

All  so  sweet  and  lowly  natural 
In  among  the  weeds  and  ferns?" 

POET. 
"For  the  reason  that  the  robin 

Down  across  the  meadow  vale, 
Never  singeth  like  the  skylark, 

Or  the  matchless  nightingale." 

MUSE. 
"There's  the  singer  of  The  Princess, 

And  the  riveless  Queen  of  May ; 
Can't  you  steal  the  rich  afflatus 

That  is  glowing  in  his  lay?" 

POET. 
"Who  can  paint  the  rosy  rainbow 

Now  so  golden  in  the  sky  ? 
Who  can  match  the  diamond  dewdrops 

On  the  lash  of  Beauty's  eye  ? 

"Who  can  fashion  in  the  starlight 

Sweetest  lilies  of  the  vale  ? 
Who  can  teach  the  merry  mock-bird 

In  the  moonlight  soft  and  pale  ? 

"Who  can  woo  the  Delphic  muses 
From  their  hilltop  in  the  blue, 

So  the  bard  on  earth  shall  hear  them : 
'And  we  sing  alone  for  you !' " 

MUSE. 
"Years  have  gone  since  first  you  wooed  me, 

'Neath  the  hawthorn,  as  I  said ; 
And  you  told  me  pretty  nothings 

In  the  sunset  soft  and  red. 

"And  an  artless  country  maiden, 

Did  I  listen  to  your  tale ; 
And  beneath  the  gathering  shadows 

Cupid  dodged  about  in  mail. 

"Were  you  half  as  good  a  poet 

As  you  were  a  lover  then, 
The  unlettered  maid  beside  you 

Would  have  made  the  Muses  ten." 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MUSE. 

POET. 

"Ten  already,  rarest  maiden ! 

But  the  world  is  dull  of  eye ; 
And  the  men  of  greatest  genius 

Are  not  known  until  they  die." 

MUSE. 
"Then  the  mournful  graveyard  flowers 

Must  entwine  our  mossy  tomb, 
Ere  the  world  shall  wreathe  the  laurel 

That  is  fadeless  in  its  bloom?" 

POET. 

"So  I  said  of  highest  genius, 

Not  the  workman's  halting  rhymes ; 
If  I  win,  the  Maid  of  Delphi 

Must  attune  my  coarser  chimes." 

MUSE. 
"How  to  know  which  bard  is  greatest, 

Whether  muse  be  muse  at  all ; 
Tho'  they  twine  the  rarest  flowers 

On  a  fairy  garden  wall?" 

POET. 
"Critics  like  the  greatest  poets, 

'To  the  manner'  have  been  born ; 
So  'tis  genius  seeth  genius, 

And  the  laurels  place  upon. 

"Thus  our  Emerson,  our  Carlyle, 
First  did  place  in  high  repute ; 

While  the  world  so  vast  and  mighty, 
Stood  so  silent  and  so  mute." 

MUSE. 
"Then  our  union  was  a  wedding 

That  was  born  of  truest  love ; 
And  the  skies  will  be  propitious 

As  our  star  shall  shine  above?" 

POET. 
"Yes,  when  you  and  I  were  wooing 

'Neath  the  hawthorn  and  the  tree 
We  together  took  our  chances 

With  the  future  yet  to  be. 


470  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

"I  could  promise  like  a  lover, 
Like  a  lover  name  the  day, 

When  our  ship  with  rosy  garlands 
Would  come  speeding  to  the  bay. 

"Something  then  but  half  unconscious, 
Seemed  to  whisper  in  my  ear : 

'Woo  and  win  the  lovely  muses, 

And  they'll  gild  the  golden  year. 
i 

"  'Life  shall  seem  a  dream  of  Faery, 
Time  will  sweetly  melt  away, 

With  an  Eden  full  of  honey, 
And  the  wildbird's  song  for  aye. 

"  'And  your  numbers  shall  be  modest, 
For  she'll  be  a  bashful  muse ; 

With  her  rustic  country  garments 
All  bespangled  with  the  dews. 

.    "  'You  will  woo  her  'neath  the  hawthorn, 
Where  the  wildflowers  deck  the  scene ; 
And  your  brow  is  wet  with  labor, 
She  will  be  your  lovely  queen.' 

"So,  my  darling,  did  I  woo  you, 
Did  I  win  you  to  my  side ; 

And  a  'yes'  was  in  your  answer, 
And  you  soon  became  my  bride. 

"And  no  king  of  'merry  England' 
Ever  knew  the  rapturous  joy, 

When  the  golden-sandaled  muses 
From  the  Slasher  did  decoy." 

MUSE. 
"Is  a  poet  idiotic, 

And  a  monomaniac, 
And  will  turn  to  saltest  salt,  sir, 

If  he  ever  looketh  back  ? 

"For  you  tell  a  lovely  story, 
But  'tis  good  to  look  ahead, 

For  the  past  is  full  of  promises, 
That  like  autumn  leaves  were  shed. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  'old,  old  story,' 
With  its  castle  on  the  Khine, 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MUSE. 

That  will  melt  beneath  the  vision, 
Like  a  fog-bank  on  the  brine. 

"If  your  castle  is  a  castle, 
And  the  guard  will  let  you  in, 

Let  us  buy  some  flour  and  enter, 
Ere  they  say :  'It  might  have  been !' 

"Flowers,  and  lilies,  and  laurels, 
Whortleberries,  and  sweet  thyme ; 

Hoses,  and  posies,  and  nectar, 
Good  in  their  season  and  time. 

"But  the  cabbage  and  potato, 
And  the  corn  upon  the  ear, 

May  not  touch  so  high  emotions 
As  a  beauty's  diamond  tear. 

"But  I  notice  when  at  table, 
All  your  doughty  butterflies, 

Have  they  turned  to  winged  biscuits^ 
And  your  lily-pads  to  pies." 


"Give  me  time,  for  time's  the  master 
That  has  crowned  the  greatest  bard ; 

But  I'll  love  you,  lass,  forever, 
Tho'  unhonored  and  unstarred. 

"Pious  Cowper  sang  at  fifty, 
And  our  Milton  sang  as  late ; 

He  must  woo  the  maid  of  Patience 
Who  would  stand  among  the  great. 

"I'm  not  working  in  a  garret 
With  a  single  crust  of  bread ; 

But  amid  the  haunts  of  labor 
Till  the  sun  is  sinking  red. 

"Till  the  falling  dews  of  even 
Have  so  sweetly  kist  the  rose, 

That  the  soft  imagination 
Has  a  sky  with  tinted  bows. 

"Till  the  god  of  love  is  wandering 
Thro'  the  silver-evened  grove, 

And  the  maids  are  in  the  starlight 
With  the  only  one  they  love. 


472  THE  LAD  T  OF  DAEDALE. 

MUSE. 

"You,  no,  never  are  you  practical, 
In  your  after-dinner  talk, 

But  you'll  sing  of  old  Canary, 
And  the  nodding  hollyhock. 

"Old  potatoes  turn  to  peaches, 
And  to  viands  pork  and  beans ; 

An  imaginary  servant 
To  a  muse  of  rosy  teens. 

"When  I  get  as  blue  as  indigo, 
And  the  sky  seems  falling  down, 

Sing  you  yellow-banded  lilies 
By  the  roadside  dusty  brown. 

When  the  world  is  cold  and  heartless, 
And  the  earth  seems  cold  and  drear ; 

You  will  turn  the  bitter  teardrop 
To  a  diamond  in  the  ear. 

"And  you  never  lose  your  patience, 
As  the  days  go  flitting,  by ; 

Tho'  the  bitter,  bitter  teardrops 
Still  are  gathering  in  my  eye." 

POET. 
"You  are  wed  to  golden  ducats, 

But  a  sweetness  in  the  verse, 
Would  reward  me  tho'  it  never 

Should  enlarge  my  flaccid  purse. 

"Since  I  sing  for  all  the  beauty 
In  the  earth  and  sky  above ; 

And  the  harp  will  sound  the  sweetest 
That  is  tuned  to  perfect  love. 

"Wait,  and  'mid  the  golden  harvest, 
Like  a  Ruth  among  the  corn, 

You  shall  stand  with  glittering  garments 
On  our  golden  wedding  morn." 

MUSE. 

"You  could  turn  a  stone  to  diamond, 
And  a  cheese  to  rounded  moon ; 

Yet  you  seem  to  be  unconscious 
As  the  bard  that  sang  of  Boon." 


SIEGE  OF  VICKSBURG.  473 

POET. 

"But  our  after-dinner  chatting, 

'  'Cross  the  walnuts  and  the  wine,' 
Makes  it  seem  a  knightly  table 

Where  the  guests  were  all  divine. 

"So  we'll  part  as  truest  lovers 

In  our  love's  own  truest  law ; 
While  the  'music  from  the  dishes' 

Joins  our  lowly  aurevoir!" 


SIEGE  OF  VICKSBURG. 


Soldier  of  the  gaudy  Blue, 

Soldier  of  the  Gray, 
Do  your  hearts  remember  now 

Vicksburg's  bloody  day  ? 

When  the  winter  winds  were  drear, 

And  the  sun  was  red, 
And  the  valiant  soldier  boys 

On  the  field  were  dead  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  cannonade, 

And  the  gunboats'  fire, 
Where  the  naval  forces  brave 

Waged  the  battle  dire  ? 

Can  you  see  the  shipping  now 

Crowding  to  the  shore, 
Hear  the  heavy  cannon  peal 

Echo  more  and  more  ? 

Where  the  Mississippi  stream 

Gurgles  like  a  song, 
And  the  stately  Union  ships 

Grandly  sail  along  ? 

In  your  veteran  hearts,  I  fear, 

Do  you  ponder  well, 
How  the  Mississippi  boats 

Hurled  the  shot  and  shell. 


474  THE  LADY  OF  DARD ALE. 

But  attack,  ah !  all  in  vain 

From  the  naval  force, 
Tho'  the  batteries  thundered  there, 

Cannon  loud  and  hoarse ! 

So,  the  boats  bombard  no  more, 

And  the  gun  is  still, 
And  the  fleet  has  sailed  away 

By  the  rebel  hill. 

Yet,  O  Southern  men,  I  cry, 
Tho'  from  Memphis  there, 

And  from  New  Orleans  at  last, 
They've  gone,  have  a  care ! 

For  the  potent  Grant  will  conie, 

Eighteen  sixty-three, 
And  he'll  storm  you  fore  and  aft, 

And  right  gloriously ! 

Now  on  land  you  hear  his  tread, 

See  him  on  your  rear, 
All  the  iron-clads  have  gone, 

But  you  know  the  cheer ! 

And  my  Vicksburg !  thou  art  doomed, 

For  he  crosses  bold, 
O'er  the  stream  at  Bruinsburg, 

Soon  to  storm  your  hold. 

Marching  on  to  Jackson  now, 
"Where  your  forces  lie, 

Under  General  Johnston  where 
Kebel  banners  fly. 

And  he  sweepeth  like  a  storm, 
'Gainst  your  fortress  there ; 

You  can  hear  his  ponderous  tread 
On  the  quaking  air ! 

Now  your  garrison  he  storms, 
And  your  grand  old  town ; 

"Fling  the  starry  banner  out!" 
And  the  Bars  haul  down ! 

All  communication  gone, 
Fortification  falls ; 


BATTLE  OF  SHILOH.  475 

Now  hurrah  for  General  Grant, 
Storming  rebel  walls ! 

Now  six  weeks  have  rolled  away, 

Vicksburg  town  is  won, 
While  from  conquered  Gettysburg, 

Echoes  Victory's  gun  !* 

Gone  the  true  ones,  and  the  brave, 

Gone  the  Blue  and  Gray ; 
Yet  in  memory  liveth  now 

Vicksburg's  fated  Day ! 

Crown  the  generals  of  the  siege, 

Crown  the  soldier  true ; 
Crown  the  bravest  there  that  fought, 

But  crown,  crown  the  Blue ! 

And  dear  Memory  paint  the  scene 

With  an  angel  brush ; 
And  the  boisterous  soldier  speak, 

Honor  echo:  "Hush!" 


BATTLE  OF  SHILOH. 

Yes,  in  eighteen  sixty  two, 

When  the  April  sun  was  red, 
Many  boys  that  wore  the  blue, 

On  the  battle-field  w  ere  dead  ; 
Yet  when  April  morn  arose, 

On  the  fatal  second  day, 
Thousands  of  their  valiant  foes 

Were  as  dead  and  cold  as  they. 

You  that  saw  them  in  the  fight, 

Did  ye  doubt  they  fought,  and  well  ? 
And  the  stars  that  came  at  night, 

How  their  holy  beauty  fell 
On  the  man  that  wore  the  Gray, 

On  the  man  that  wore  the  Blue, 
Corpses  now  of  stiffened  clay, 

Fast  in  death  for  me  and  you  ! 
*Gcttysburg  was  won  on  the  same  day. 


476  TEE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Grant  was  proud  to  lead  them  there, 

Grant  the  laureled  and  the  brave, 
Sherman  with  his  soldier  air 

Dared  the  rebels  and  the  grave ; 
Hark  !  that  heavy  soldier  tread, 

March,  march  'neath  April  skies  ; 
Many  a  man  that  nobly  bled, 

Many  a  man  for  Freedom  dies  ! 

Meet  the  armies  with  a  shock, 

But  the  Johnston  findeth  Grant 
Firm  as  fatal  Inchcape  Kock 

In  the  surf  of  some  Nahant ; 
And  the  Shiloh  Church  resounds, 

And  the  cannon  ball  is  sped, 
Echo  Battle's  horrid  sounds, 

O'er  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 

Shiloh,  all  thy  memories  come, 

'Gan  thy  hero  nobly  bleeds, 
Sounds  again  thy  martial  drum, 

All  thy  dead  'mid  tangled  weeds, 
Flowers,  and  thy  bloody  sands, 

Seem  to  rise  on  Shiloh  plains 
With  their  meek,  imploring  hands, 

Raised  above  their  red  remains. 

Down  the  sweeping  Tennessee, 

Cannon  echo  and  resound, 
Yet  no  Sherman  to  the  Sea 

Thundered  over  rebel  ground  ; 
Potent  armies  met  and  fought, 

Potent  generals  led  the  fray, 
Are  their  valorous  deeds  forgot? 

Who  shall  brand  that  April  day? 

From  Corinth  their  inarch  is  made, 

Are  the  federals  falling  back  ? 
Yes,  but  never  yet  dismayed, 

Tho'  a  Lee  were  on  their  track  ! 
But,  O  Johnston  !  flushed  with  hope, 

Speeds  a  treacherous  rifle  ball, 
But  a  Beauregard  shall  cope, 

Tho'  the  Southern  General  fall. 

But  the  gunboats  on  the  stream, 
And  artillery  on  the  shore, 

In  the  sunlight  flash  and  gleam, 
O'er  the  muskets  loudly  roar; 


DEFENDING  A  HOME.  477 

Till  the  April  sun  went  down 

Far  behind  the  western  hills, 
And  where  cannon  late  did  frown, 

Sang  the  birds  and  babbling  rills. 

Hark !  the  second  April  day 

Wakes  to  many  a  horrid  gun ; 
Beauregard  may  lead  the  fray, 

But  the  battle  is  unwon ; 
Honor  to  the  Union  side, 

Honor  to  the  leaders  brave ; 
Publish  to  the  world  outside, 

Flag  of  Freedom  still  shall  wave ! 


DEFENDING  A  HOME. 


i. 

Little  fledgelings,  life's  uncertain, 

Snakes  are  hidden  in  the  grass, 
And  among  the  flowerets  blooming 

By  the  roadside  as  you  pass ; 
And  your  home  in  all  its  beauty 

Still  on  earth  may  seem  secure, 
But  are  dangers  all  around  you, 

Some  to  kill,  and  some  to  lure. 

n. 
And,  sweet  birdlings,  when  thy  mother 

Felt  no  danger  could  be  nigh, 
Did  a  horrid  danger  meet  her 

With  a  cruel,  treacherous  eye ; 
And  in  vain  the  coiled  monster 

May  thy  mother  there  assail, 
For  his  fangs  are  sharp  and  deadly, 

And  his  form  is  clothed  in  mail. 

in. 
She  might  leave  you,  and  go  winged 

Thro'  the  summer  scented  air ; 
But  did  ever  yet  a  mother  • 

Leave  her  dear  ones  in  despair? 


478 


THE  LADY  OF  DA  RDA  LE. 


BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM.  479 

No,  no  birdlings,  wildly  crying, 

In  your  nameless,  helpless  fear ; 
But  she  cannot,  cannot  shield  you, 

Though  to  her  you  are  so  dear. 

IV. 

So  it  is,  among  the  flowers 

Greatest  dangers  oft  are  found, 
Sweetest  flowerets  sometimes  hiding 

Things  that  crawl  upon  the  ground ; 
Oft  does  danger  come  in  beauty, 

Come  in  many  a  myriad  guise, 
Till  the  snake  concealed  in  flowers 

Flashes  up  with  glittering  eyes! 


BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 


Arms  I  sing  of  Blenheim, 

In  Bavaria  there, 
Where  the  doughty  Germans 

Every  foe  did  dare ; 
Where  Bavarian  generals 

With  an  army  brave, 
Dared  the  might  of  England, 

And  a  soldier's  grave. 

Where  with  mighty  Tallard 

Bravely  at  their  head, 
Marched  the  hostile  army, 

With  its  banner  dread ; 
Daring  all  of  Holland, 

And  the  Marlborough's  might, 
Every  man  a  hero, 

Valorous  for  the  fight. 

August  sun  was  rising 

O'er  Bavarian  hills, 
Shooting  thro'  the  valleys, 

Sparkling  on  the  rills ; 
When  the  allied  forces, 

With  eight  columns  brave, 
Marched  to  bloody  victory, 

Thousands  to  their  grave. 


480  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Back !    O  mighty  Tallard ! 

Marsin  !  draw  thy  blade ! 
Can  the  bay  of  heroes 

On  a  hero  fade  ? 
O  thou  brave  Elector ; 

O  thou  generals  brave, 
Fearest  not  the  Marlborough, 

Where  his  banners  wave? 

Seven !  hands  were  pointing 

On  the  Hochstadt  clock, 
When  Bavarian  armies 

Felt  the  fatal  shock; 
Felt  the  might  of  Marlborough, 

And  the  Prince  Eugene, 
Thousand  dead  Bavarians 

In  the  cold  ravine. 

Thousands  in  the  Danube, 

Thousands  on  the  ground, 
Never  more  to  answer 

Cannon's  sullen  sound ; 
Five  o'clock  is  fatal 

In  Bavarian  time ; 
Goes  the  fame  of  Marlborough 

To  the  farthest  clime. 

Thro'  the  dauntless  Frenchmen 

Burst  the  German  force ; 
Burst  the  might  of  Savoy, 

Cannon  baying  hoarse ; 
Burst  the  brave  of  Portugal, 

All  the  Austrian  band, 
Till  from  captured  Tallard 

Falls  the  bloody  brand. 

Evening  shadows  gather, 

Kiss  Bavarian  dead, 
Fall  upon  the  heroes 

Tallard  bravely  led ; 
Yet  thou  matchless  Marlborough, 

Fame  has  lit  thy  brow ; 
And  the  allied  Nations 

Honor  Marlborough  now. 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
LONGFELLOW. 

I. 

All!  who  will  listen  to  my  Song  of  songs, 
And  listening  softly,  hear  my  story  through  ? 
Since  hoary  Death  has  cut  the  golden  thongs 
That  hound  his  heart  to  ours.    Beneath  the  blue 
I  watch  and  wait.    Our  land  and  poet  grew 
In  heauty  side  by  side.    The  muses  led 
Him  on  from  sweet  to  sweet.    The  falling  dew 
Was  on  his  flowers  in  rarest  beauty  shed, 
Till  plains  in  lesser  song:  "Our  lovely  Bard  is  dead!" 

ii. 

0  Nature  loved  of  all !  why  not  a Jaard 

Of  lesser  worth  ?  for  others  we  had  spared 
From  out  our  native  land ;  for  he  was  starred 
By  loving  hands,  who  long,  long  years  had  cared 
For  all  his  wants,  as  by  the  stream  he  fared, 
The  castled  Rhine,  or  on  the  crested  sea, 
Whose  boundless  grandeur  he  had  loved  and  dared, 
Till  in  his  songs  "we  see  or  seem  to  see," 
The  blended  beauties  of  the  Future  yet  to  be. 

m. 

For  back  through  lonely  years  we  gently  look, 
And  more  than  three  score  years  and  ten  like  sand, 
Fall  one  by  one,  as  though  an  open  book 
Of  all  his  lovely  life,  were  in  the  hand ; 
And  as  we  read,  a  picture  great  and  grand 
In  soft  imagination  shapeth  fair, 
With  flowers  and  vines,  within  a  lovely  land, 
Where  all  things  sweeter  seem,  with  seraph  air, 
Because  our  holy  bard  with  love  had  wandered  there. 

IV. 

1  did  not  say  he  was  the  greatest;  nay, 
A  critic  true  shall  draw  the  line ;  'tis  I 

f     Will  call  him  greatest  in  the  poet's  lay 
Who  sings  of  homely  beauties  'neath  a  sky 
32 


482  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  RDALE. 

Where  Home  the  dearest,  holiest  presence  nigh, 
And  all  the  native  worth  of  lovely  Hope, 
Shines  over  all,  the  eye  is  still  undry 
From  recent  pity  that  a  heart  did  grope 
In  Misery's  dungeon  shade  no  brighter  scene  to  ope. 


And  if  I  sing  my  lay  from  out  the  heart, 
And  sing  the  best  I  know,  and  all  the  world 
Shall  love  me  for  the  sweetness  of  my  art, 
The  high,  the  low  my  banner  have  unfurled, 
The  maid  that  stood  beside  the  brook  that  purled     * 
So  sweetly,  shepherds  on  the  naked  hills 
'Mid  woolly  flocks,  and  homes  where  softly  curled 
The  fireside  smoke,  why  need  I  check  their  wills  ? 
For  love  is  natural  yet  as  springtide's  babbling  rills. 

VI. 

The  scholar  great  with  line  and  rigid  plumb, 
May  find  an  accent  out  of  place,  a  word 
With  less  of  force  than  one  would  like ;  but  dumb 
The  mind  that  seeks  for  nature's  rarest  bird 
In  native  tree  or  dell,  where  sounds  are  heard 
In  natural  sweetness,  when  amid  his  songs 
In  evening's  twilight  hour  the  mind  is  stirred 
As  merry  bells  in  snow-time,  golden  gongs 
By  lovely  fairies  struck,  unstained  of  earth's  sad  wrongs. 

VII. 

One  likes  his  wine,  and  boastful  of  his  grape 
Fat  bellied  in  the  sun  now  tempting  there, 
Does  mock  at  beer,  and  stares  like  clown  agape 
At  mention  of  the  name ;  while  hanging  fair 
The  rich  impurpled  grape  does  tempt  the  air, 
And  every  bibber  of  the  luscious  juice, 
Till  rarest  judges  in  a  half  despair, 
A  vain  cessation  cause,  and  offer  truce 
That  only  tends  to  show  the  clustered  berries'  ruse. 

VIII. 

For  Fashion's  tricks  are  oft  supreme,  till  time 
With  quiet  sway  steals  on,  and  new  is  old, 
And  old  is  new,  and  things  from  foreign  clime 
As  dear  invited  guests  from  land  of  gold, 
Supplant  the  reigning  Queen,  till  we  behold 
A  fashion  out  of  fashion,  and  a  band 


A  MONODY  ON   THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW. 

Of  strangers  in  a  golden  chariot  rolled, 
That  seem  the  loveliest  in  the  loveliest  land, 
Till  captive  we  are  led  by  Fashion's  varying  hand. 

IX. 

And  so  I  love  for  loveliness  of  Love, 
Not  caring  who  may  join  me  in  my  song. 
The  maid  is  mine,  she  seems  like  stars  above, 
E'en  though  her  dress  is  wry  and  hanging  wrong. 
The  tinsel  of  old  Fashion's  jeweled  throng 
Could  not  persuade  me  that  I  love  her  less. 
I'm  sure  the  days  will  not  be  overlong 
When  I  shall  love  her  more  because  her  dress 
Won  not  my  willing  heart,  nor  made  my  love  the  less. 


But  he  is  dead,  and  all  my  love  in  vain. 
I  never  touched  his  noble  hand ;  his  eye 
I  never  saw ;  my  song  within  the  brain 
Took  lovely  shape,  and  neath  the  lovelier  sky, 
Would  sing  itself  with  lovely  beings  nigh, 
Whether  I  would  or  not ;  but  captive  led, 
I  willing  sing  with  moisture  still  undry, 
That  he  to  such  a  lovely  Muse  was  wed, 
Till  cruel,  cruel  March  had  told  us  he  was  dead ! 

XI. 

Yes,  dead  to  all  the  beauty  of  the  earth, 
In  valley  sweet,  or  by  the  laughing  stream, 
On  mossiest  height,  where  flowerets  find  their  birth. 
And  lilies  in  a  drowsy  beauty  dream, 
Unconscious  that  the  stars  that  flash  and  gleam, 
Are  smiling  on  a  poet's  grave,  with  stone 
To  mark  the  spot,  where  Death  does  lovely  seem, 
Because  the  Laureate  sleepeth  there  alone, 
That  Death  made  lovely  now,  had  claimed  for  his  own. 


Too  late  I  mourn  ?    Does  beauty  ever  die  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  beauty  of  a  thing 
That  was  ?    You  saw  him  walk  beneath  the  sky, 
Amid  the  beauty  of  the  amorous  Spring, 
With  happy  children  that  like  vines  did  cling 
About  his  presence,  till  you  loved  the  bard 
Of  Charles's  winding  stream,  and  heard  him  sing 
In  printed  book  of  homesteads  yet  unmarred, 
Of  lovely,  hoping  hearts  that  he  had  gemmed  and  starred. 


484  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 


I  hold  it  right  to  love  the  twisted  vine, 
And  mingled  flower,  with  close  approaching  weed, 
Beside  a  dusty  road,  where  some  sweet  Tyne 
A  breezy  lullaby  outsings.    I  bleed 
For  lowly  loveliness,  and  richest  meed 
I  offer  unto  him  who  lowly  sang, 
And  piped  upon  his  rural,  rustic  reed, 
That  years  on  years  in  perfect  beauty  rang 
In  every  humble  home,  the  balm  to  many  a  pang. 


The  Nation  yet  unripe,  with  scanty  shore, 
For  Freedom  struggled  hard,  and  poet's  verse 
The  least  demand ;  the  Autumn's  bounteous  store, 
In  fullest  barns,  of  these  they  did  rehearse 
In  natural  song  from  out  the  heart.    In  terse 
And  lowly  diction  rang  the  layman's  song ; 
And  many  a  hero  in  a  funeral  hearse 
Had  given  life  to  right  his  Country's  wrong, 
With  hope  that  Freedom's  birth  would  come  ere  days  were  long. 

xv. 

The  land  was  new,  a  babe  of  vainest  dreams, 
Where  Stars  and  Stripes  o'er  homes  uncertain  waved; 
For  British  bayonets  with  their  fitful  gleams, 
Were  constant  dread,  for  Child  so  ill  behaved, 
That  Mother-country  stormed,  and  fought,  and  raved, 
Till  horrid  War  was  sounding  in  the  land, 
And  death  on  many  a  lowly  home  was  graved, 
By  many  a  foe  with  stained  and  treacherous  hand, 
That  swung  the  glittering  blade  at  head  of  hostile  band. 

XVI. 

So  no  demand  for  poet's  loftiest  lay, 
For  axe  was  ringing  'neath  the  greenwood  tree, 
Or  hunter's  gun  where  deer  had  gone  astray, 
Or  wily  Indian  striking  Liberty 
Her  fellest  blow.    But  now  I  sing  of  thee 
With  sixty  millions,  ranking  you  at  last 
Among  the  vastest  Nations,  on  the  sea 
As  free  to  sail  as  vastest  of  the  vast, 
Thy  busy,  potent  sails  outspread  before  the  blast. 

XVII. 

And  yet  he  grew  in  sweetness  and  in  love, 
In  home  historic,  winning  all  the  hearts 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH   OF  LONGFELLOW.      48-1 

Of  those  who  meekly  look  to  scenes  above 
For  perfect  joy.    Not  trusting  Hope  in  marts, 
In  cultured  rooms,  where  Art's  divinest  arts 
Are  classic  gods,  and  teach  that  tinsel  show, 
Is  better  for  the  actor  in  his  parts, 
Than  humbler  scenes  of  lowly  and  the  low, 
Where  true  and  honest  worth  unrecognized  may  go. 

XVIII. 

A  bard  he  was  in  love  with  nature's  sweets, 
His  simple  songs  were  perfect  in  their  way, 
And  every  heart  unto  his  language  beats 
In  inner  song  ;  for  such  his  holy  sway 
Before  his  death,  and  even  now,  the  gay, 
The  rich,  the  proud,  do  homage  at  his  shrine, 
And  bow  before  the  beauty  of  his  lay. 
A  general  chorus :  "Lovely  bard  of  mine, 
We  love  the  loveliness  of  lovely  songs  of  thine. 

XIX. 

"And  could  our  hearts  have  held  thee  captive  here, 
Amid  the  scenes  you  knew  and  loved  so  well, 
The  world  had  never  seen  our  poet's  bier, 
And  o'er  our  dying  heard  our  last  farewell  ; 
But  all  our  tears  and  sobbings  could  not  swell 
The  beauty  of  your  life,  so  Death,  and  dread, 
Would  turn  another  way,  and  stop  the  bell 
That  told  the  nations  that  our  bard  was  dead, 
And  moaning  muses  to  the  cypress  shades  had  led." 

xx. 

But  still  thy  songs  remain,  and  will  not  die 
So  long  as  Beauty  lingers  in  the  land, 
And  stars  fall  not  from  out  the  great  blue  sky, 
And  loveliness  still  blooms  on  every  hand ; 
For  these  were  thine,  with  golden  bow  that  spanned, 
And  far  across  old  Ocean's  emerald  blue, 
Till  smiling  stars,  in  all  the  world  had  scanned, 
Our  poet's  presence,  fresh  as  morning  dew 
Upon  a  new-made  grave  beneath  the  bending  yew. 


Evangeline  is  sweet  as  poet's  dream 
Amid  a  storied  haunt  in  flowery  vale, 
And  like  an  angel  does  her  presence  seem, 
When  for  her  Gabriel  she  will  weep  and  wail ; 


486  THE  LADY  OF  DAKDALE. 

The  measure  takes  no  interest  from  the  tale, 
And  those  that  strike  a  blow  in  critic  art. 
Will  die  ere  sweet  Evangeline  is  pale 
In  death,  for  she  alone  has  won  the  heart, 
While  they,  what  have  they  done  but  hurled  the  winged  dart? 

XXII. 

Too  much  we  have  of  Art  in  empty  line, 
For  by  extremes  the  world  must  ever  go ; 
And  so  we  dig  in  never-ending  mine 
For  e'en  a  brighter  gem  that  seems  below ; 
And  let  the  lesser  flowers  that  bloom  and  blow, 
Die  weltering  by  the  dusty  road  alone ! 
It  is  not  right,  and  you  will  tell  me  so, 
When  once  you  see  the  madly-rushing  Rhone 
Is  not  the  only  stream  with  beauty  all  its  own. 


The  rainbow  has  no  force  but  Beauty's  hue ; 
But  what  a  wondrous  arch  across  the  sky ! 
What  blended  shades  across  the  deeper  blue ! 
What  blended  beauties  to  the  raptured  eye ! 
How  glorious  in  the  realms  so  spanless  high ! 
And  such  his  verse  from  Beauty's  higher  thought ; 
And  those  that  come  in  love  will  not  deny 
In  Poesy's  perfect  numbers  he  has  wrought, 
And  sweetly  with  his  songs  to  holier  mansions  brought ! 

XXIV. 

I  doubt  me  if  the  bard  that  stirs  the  soul, 
With  martial  numbers  and  the  sounding  fife, 
The  blatant  drum  with  loud  and  ponderous  roll, 
The  charging  heroes  madly  risking  life, 
And  bloody  standard  thro'  the  bloodier  strife, 
Is  more  a  bard  than  he  who  sings  alone 
By  quiet  streams,  where  native  beauties  rife, 
Do  lend  a  loveliness  at  once  their  own, 
And  win  you  heart  and  soul  by  Music's  softened  tone. 

XXV. 

All  pretty  landscapes  basking  in  the  sun, 

With  smiling,  nestling  lakes,  (the  arching  swan,) 

With  pebbly  shores,  and  pastures  reaching  dun, 

And  over  all  the  laughing  of  the  dawn, 

But  teach  us  of  the  day  and  hour  forlorn, 

That  took  him  from  our  hearts ;  for  these  suggest, 

In  beauty  all  the  beauty  of  the  morn 


A  MONODY  OX  TH£  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.         487 


That  looked  in  vain  o'er  fields  that  he  had  blest, 
Ere  pale  Columbia  wept  that  death  was  her  behest. 

XXVI. 

And  even  now  is  he  forgot  ?    His  tomb 
Is  known  to  many  a  friend,  the  wildwood  flower 
Has  sought  him  there,  and  there  will  sweetly  bloom; 
And  thro'  the  winter  and  the  summer  hour 
His  song  shall  sound  in  many  a  lovely  bower  ; 
And  on,  and  on  thro'  eve  and  morning's  prime, 
Till  sun  on  suns  have  clomb  the  highest  tower, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  his  magic  rhyme 
Has  gone  in  lowly  song  from  clime  to  farthest  clime. 

XXVII. 

With  different  tastes  we  love  a  different  bard  ; 
But  every  poet  true  has  more  or  less 
Of  nature's  beauty,  and  we  find  him.  starred 
For  certain  traits.    With  holly  will  we  dress 
Our  cultured  bard  we  love,  tho'  still  confess 
He  was  not  Keats,  nor  England's  chosen  one, 
But  just  as  lovely  in  his  loveliness, 
Beneath  the  brilliance  of  a  smiling  sun, 
On  Poesy's  highest  goal  that  he  in  song  had  won. 

XXVIII. 

If  I  may  choose,  my  Byron  seemeth  great  ; 
But  only  places  here  and  there  shall  hold 
The  cultured  thought.    When  years  are  waxing  late, 
And  Tennysons  have  dressed  their  maids  in  gold, 
With  sweet  and  delicate  guise,  and  public  taste 
Has  learned  to  know  the  poet's  matchless  skill 
In  forming  numbers  rich,  and  rare,  and  chaste, 
This  bard  will  sail  on  dark  Oblivion's  rill, 
And  be  at  last  forgot  upon  the  Muses'  hill. 

XXIX. 

For  those  that  judge  the  verses  of  to-day, 
Are  more  exacting  than  a  Delphic  god, 
And  though  all  native  beauties  grace  the  lay, 
They  give  the  head  an  artificial  nod, 
And  hint  the  flower  outblooming  by  the  sod, 
A  trifle  out  of  season  seems  to  be  ; 
And  so  they  lay  the  Critic's  chastening  rod 
Upon  the  happy  singer  of  the  sea, 
Because  he  sang  as  true  as  he  who  sang  of  Dee. 


488  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  R  DALE. 

xxx. 

For  he  who  looks  for  faults  will  find  them  there, 
Since  as  you  think  a  man  may  seem  to  you ; 
So  Burns  found  Highland  Mary  "faultless  fair;" 
So  love  will  rear  its  castles  in  the  blue. 
But  only  certain  things  retain  the  dew ; 
And  these  are  very  rare.    So  much  is  said, 
So  many  soar,  we  just  retain  the  few ; 
And  many  that  we  cherished  soon  are  dead, 
They  held  us  when  in  view  like  sunset's  sinking  red. 


My  favorite  bards  are  few;  and  yet  I  love 
Them  all,  for  each  his  special  trait  of  beauty 
That  ranks  him  o'er  the  rest.    The  stars  above, 
That  shine  from  out  the  blue,  to  one  in  duty 
Across  the  heavens  shine  at  night.    Their  beauty 
Is  what  the  poet  sees ;  and  like  a  Keats, 
He'd  vote  confusion  on  the  man  of  duty, 
Who  with  his  bolder,  scientific  feats, 
Places  his  rigid  law  in  Beauty's  rare  retreats. 


I  read  them  all,  and  like  my  song  of  bards 
I  puzzled  still  remain,  for  reading  one, 
He  seems  the  best.    The  flowers  in  country  yards 
Their  thousand  claims.    Beneath  the  glowing  sun, 
By  myriad  beauties  is  the  poet  won ; 
And  while  the  crowd  still  wander  thoughtless  by, 
He  paints  the  wondrous  things  that  Time  has  done, 
In  every  field  and  valley  'neath  the  sky, 
Until  he  longs  to  live  and  never,  never  die. 

XXXIII. 

But  he  is  dead !  O  Death !  how  came'st  thou  here  ? 
Didst  wander  on,  and  knew  not  where  you  went  ? 
You  had  no  pity  that  we  shed  our  tear ; 
You  came  a  stranger,  and  the  banks  of  Trent, 
Had  known  you  just  as  well,  until  you  bent 
The  'horrid  bow  and  winged  the  fatal  dart, 
With  such  unerring  force,  we  knew  it  meant 
Our  Poet's  death !    And  every  sorrowing  heart 
From  one  so  long  endeared,  how  could  they  tearless  part? 


Could  not  my  love  have  wooed  thee  back?  Ah, -no! 
Thou  art  relentless !    No  respecter  thou 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.          489 

Of  any  person.    All  our  tears  might  flow, 
And  all  our  nation  meekly  fall  and  bow, 
And  all  our  plaints  and  wails  beseech  thee  now, 
And  yet  you  had  not  stopped,  you  will  not  pause, 
Not  even  now,  though  piteous  word  and  vow, 
Had  gone  to  thee ;  for  thy  relentless  laws 
Are  swerveless  to  the  last  as  time's  decisive  wars. 

XXXV. 

But,  Death,  you  cannot  rob  us  of  the  sweets 
He  has  so  lavish  left !    And  yet  we  will 
Not  laugh  at  thee,  for  once  you  slew  our  Keats 
And  Shelley  sweeter  than  the  meadow  rill ! 
And  who  can  say,  when  Iov6d  form  is  still, 
In  thee,  that  it  were  not  e'en  better  so  ? 
I  pause  in  doubt  beside  his  flower-mound  hill, 
And  while  the  straying  wild-bells  bloom  and  blow, 
I  ask  in  sadness  now :  "O  who  of  men  may  know?" 

XXXVI. 

That  holy  Book  would  answer  with  a  "Yea, 
'Tis  better  so !"    But  yet  I  mourn  him  lost, 
Because  I  cannot  see  him  since  that  Day 
So  isolated  from  the  rest !    The  cost 
To  me  is  hidden  as  the  brook  that  crost 
The  valley,  and  has  mingled  with  the  stream 
That  sweepeth  to  the  ocean ;  for  he  wast 
So  interwoven  with  my  life  and  dream, 
That  when  he  went  away  he  with  us  still  did  seem. 

xxxvn. 

And  yet  if  death  were  better,  so  we  do  not  see, 
Because  we  have  not  gone  beyond  the  tomb, 
Nor  crossed  with  silent  Boatman  o'er  the  Sea, 
That  now  divides  our  bard  from  flowers  that  bloom 
Within  his  hallowed  home  or  study-room, 
Now  by  his  children  trained  how  to  grow ; 
For  long  ere  him  their  Mother  did  assume 
An  angel's  robe,  and  to  the  grave  did  go, 
The  amaranthine  wreath  an  emblem  of  their  woe. 

XXXVIII. 

He  mourned  for  her  as  we  for  him,  and  vain ; 

For  once  the  pale-faced  steed  is  come,  our  tears 

Are  all  we  have ;  for  o'er  the  silent  main 

The  soul  has  gone,  with  days,  and  months,  and  years, 

Into  the  vault  that  heedeth  not  our  fears, 


490  THE  LADY   OF  DAEDALE. 

Our:moistened  eyes,  for  dead  is  kenless  Death 
To  every  piteous  plea,  and  never  cheers, 
But  silent  alway,  as  a  mermaid  breath, 
And  yet  we  understand  the  message  that  he  saith. 

xxxix. 

Oh  do  not  say  I  mock  when  I  would  mourn ; 
My  grief  is  mine,  and  let  me  have  my  way ; 
You  may  not  miss  him,  but  his  life  was  torn 
From  out  the  haunts  I  loved  to  roam ;  for  they 
Were  part  and  parcel  of  my  joy,  and  day 
Was  often  crowded  far  before  I  found 
The  god  of  Sleep,  (soft  mingling  with  his  lay,) 
Was  Captain  brave  on  lately  trespassed  ground, 
And  hid  the  flower  in  Night  with  beauties  drowsing  round. 


Your  grief  was  sudden ;  mine  has  come  at  last, 
And  I  shall  mourn  from  out  a  lovely  mind 
That  he  has  made,  for  lavish  he  has  cast 
His  beauties  at  my  feet.    And  was  I  blind 
To  all  the  good  he  gave  ?    Nay,  gentle  Wind ! 
You  wafted  many  a  sweet  to  me  from  him, 
And  to  his  training  high  I  was  resigned, 
Until  a  presence  faint,  and  far,  and  dim, 
Stole  o'er  his  threshold-stone  with  visage  cold  and  grim. 

XLI. 

And  then  they  said  my  bard  was  dead.    I  wept ; 
The  tears  were  on  my  face,  and  when  they  cried : 
"Why  weep?"  the  welling  tears  were  scarcely  kept 
From  off  my  cheek.    "Why !  many  a  bard  has  died !" 
And  I  ?    The  great  world  never  seemed  so  wide ; 
And  in  the  crowd  I  seemed  the  most  alone ; 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  surging  of  the  tide ; 
I  seemed  to  see  a  white,  sepulchral  stone ; 
I  seemed  to  mourn  for  him  as  he  had  been  my  own ! 

XLII. 

And  but  for  staring  faces  I  had  dreamed 
My  grief  was  all  unnoticed  by  the  throng ; 
And  while  the  teardrops  on  my  eyelids  gleamed, 
They  seemed  to  mock  me.    But  I  did  no  wrong ; 
I  mourned  him  for  the  sweetness  of  his  song ; 
For  all  the  lovely  diction  of  his  verse, 
And  down  a  pleasant  stream  was  borne  along, 
Till  sudden  did  I  see  a  darkened  hearse, 
And  he  was  still  in  death !  O  could  they  treat  me  worse  ? 


A  MONODY  ON  TEE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW. 

XLIII. 

A  silent  grief  with  teardrops  in  the  eye, 
Does  sap  the  life,  and  slowly  day  by  day, 
Beneath  the  blue  and  over-arching  sky, 
Beneath  the  moon  where  lovers  pipe  their  lay ; 
In  any  haunt,  or  shepherd's  winding  way, 
In  nook,  or  street,  or  city's  busiest  mart ; 
For  grief  will  wound  the  gayest  and  the  gay, 
Will  strike  the  deepest  to  the  human  heart, 
When  death  has  coldly  winged  his  still  unerring  dart. 

XLIV. 

"And  see  his  tears!"  had  met  me  here  and  there; 
"  'Twas  but  a  man  that  died !"    And  so  they  said ; 
But  unto  me  he  was  so  pure  and  fair, 
I  mourned  him  like  a  bride  that  he  was  dead ; 
And  yet  our  hands  ard  hearts  were  never  wed ; 
I  knew  him  through  the  sweetness  of  his  words ; 
For  he  had  sung  the  sunset's  dazzling  red, 
And  he  had  sung  the  song  of  happy  birds, 
And  woolly  hillside  flocks  and  meekly  browsing  herds. 


He  was  a  something  unto  me  my  verse 
Cannot  express.    A  maiden  o'er  the  rest 
You  fondly  love.    Willst  in  a  song  rehearse 
Why  she  of  all  the  world  to  you  seems  best  ? 
And  wast  the  way  in  which  her  form  wast  drest? 
An  arching  foot,  the  roguery  in  her  eye  ? 
Yet  she  of  all  the  wide,  wide  world  has  blest 
Your  life,  and  not  the  art  to  tell  the  why, 
And  yet  when  she  is  gone  a  word  could  make  you  cry. 

XL  VI. 

And  so  with  me,  and  all  my  voiceless  grief ; 
I  read  the  book  of  life,  and  page  by  page ; 
At  last  I  turn,  to  me,  the  fatal  leaf, 
And  then  I  cry.    I  do  not  storm  and  rage ; 
I  mourn  with  all  the  graveness  of  the  sage, 
A  mournful  face,  a  sigh,  a  falling  tear ; 
I  do  not  seize  my  hair,  and  beat  my  cage ; 
For  still  I  know  that  death  has  wandered  here, 
And  made  this  unto  me  the  fatal,  fatal  Year ! 

XL  VII. 

But  not  because  I  loved  him,  or  his  friends, 
His  brothers,  or  his  children,  but  because 


492  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDA  LE. 

What  knoweth  death,  where  every  beauty  blends, 
Of  broken  homes  ?    He  comes  by  swerveless  laws ; 
And  as  I  mournful  write  my  hand  may  pause 
In  rigid  lifelessness.    The  day  is  mine 
At  every  risk.    A  silent  hand  withdraws ; 
A  rush  of  wings.    A  voice.    It  is  divine, 
And  then  we  hear  it  say :  "I  ask  this  life  of  thine!" 

XL  VIII. 

And  do  we  say :  "I  cannot  go.    My  time 
Is  all  engaged.    Please  call  upon  the  morrow?" 
But  death  will  find  you  in  the  farthest  clime, 
And  unannounced  will  drape  your  home  in  sorrow ; 
And  all  the  solace  that  your  friends  can  borrow, 
Is  that  you  sleep  at  last,  from  toil  and  care, 
Have  now  forever  gone.    And  comes  no  morrow 
That  can  disturb  him  while  he  sleepeth  there, 
Though  cyclones  cross  the  earth  with  peoples  in  despair. 

XLIX. 

"Why  mourn  him  now?"  another  one  may  say ; 
"In  storied  Abbey  rests  his  noble  bust. 
He's  half  forgot.    The  crowd  has  turned  away, 
And  all  your  song  is  o'er  a  poet's  dust! 
His  shining  pen  has  long  since  gathered  rust ; 
And  other  bards  are  clamoring  for  his  place ! 
'Twas  cruel  death  that  gave  the  fatal  thrust ; 
And  since  'tis  so,  and  gone  his  smiling  face, 
Why  now  parade  your  grief  with  such  exceeding  grace  ?" 


0  World !  O  People !  what  to  think  of  thee, 

1  hardly  know !    With  wonder  and  amaze, 

I  look,  as  you  were  something  strange  to  me ; 
And  yet  I  love  you  in  your  wildered  ways; 
I  see  your  past,  your  years,  the  winged  days, 
That  went  so  heedless  by ;  your  griefs,  your  joys, 
Were  by  extremes.    You  had  no  gracious  Mays, 
No  holy  Junes  with  laughing  girls  and  boys, 
But  many  a  windy  March  with  gold  and  base  alloys. 

LI. 

To  sit  in  quiet  nook  with  book  in  hand, 
Amid  the  unheard  songs  of  Nature,  seems 
A  tale  that's  told  of  some  enchanted  land, 
To  thee.    And  yet  the  beauty  of  your  dreams 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.        493 

In  gracious  night  where  many  a  starlight  gleams, 
Is  kindred  picture.    Go  with  me  alone 
Where  fays  and  fairies  in  their  rustic  teams, 
Seem  reining  here  and  there,  and  you  shall  own 
A  thousand  untold  joys  to  careless  lives  unknown. 

LII. 

And  when  the  sweetest  singer  of  them  all 
Shall  lay  his  pen  aside  forever,  you 
Can  mourn  with  me  ;  for  then  the  poet's  pall 
Will  have  a  glory  'neath  the  starry  blue  ; 
For  every  poet  loving  Nature  true, 
Will  sing  her  beauty  in  his  flowery  rhyme, 
And  then  the  leaves,  the  sparkling  dew, 
Will  teach  you  of  the  dear  remembered  time, 
When  white  death  wandered  there  and  holy  bells  did  chime. 

LIII. 

But  why  complain  ?    Our  dearest  friend  will  go, 
And  leave  us  to  our  grief.    We  shed  the  tear  ; 
The  eye  is  dry.    The  flower  will  bloom  and  blow 
Above  his  grave.    We  saw  him  on  the  bier  ; 
But  now  we  find  another  friend  as  dear  ; 
Since  half  forgot,  we  careless  turn  away  ; 
For  memory  fadeth  with  the  fading  year, 
And  weeds  are  on  his  grave,  and  mosses  gray  ; 
For,  dear  and  holy  dead,  grief  cannot  last  alway  ! 

LIV. 

And  yet  it  suits  me  thus  to  sing.    My  song 
Is  to  a  calmer  grief,  and  more  of  thought 
Than  weeping  eye  ;  for  tho'  they  did  no  wrong, 
I  feel  the  holy  presence  of  the  spot 
Where  once  he  sweetly  sang,  but  now  is  not  ; 
I  may  not  tell  you  why  ;  but  do  you  think 
Of  no  dear  past,  in  memory  half  forgot, 
.    That  now  will  hold  you  by  the  slightest  link, 
A  time  as  sweet,  mayhap,  as  some  dear  rose  or  pink? 


Your  locks  are  gray.    You  bend  with  heavy  years  ; 
A  twig,  a  flower,  a  word,  a  gadding  vine, 
And  all  your  past  in  memory  reappears  ; 
'Tis  distance  makes  the  picture  half  divine, 
And  half  unconscious  will  the  memory  twine 
About  your  shaken  form.    You  know  not  why  ; 
You  seem  a  sailor  on  some  castled  Rhine  ; 


494  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

You  seem  away  from  self,  beneath  a  sky 
That  such  the  beauty  round,  you  willing  there  would  die. 

LVI. 

There's  strangeness  in  the  sun,  and  strangeness,  too, 
In  every  field.    The  more  you  think,  the  more 
You  get  profound.    In  earth,  the  starry  blue, 
In  weed,  in  tree,  in  sand  upon  the  shore, 
You  find  the  marks  of— what  ?    Ah !  o'er  and  o'er, 
You  ask,  and  cannot  tell.    Nay,  who  has  told  ? 
The  sage?  the  magi?    Dumb  f orevermore ? 

0  mystic  Earth !  art  old,  and  very  old ! 
And  yet  thy  tale  by  man,  is  yet,  is  yet  untold! 

LVII. 

How  strange  it  seems !  I  sometimes  feel  afraid 
Of  thought ;  for  when  I  think,  my  hands  are  chill ; 
My  breath  is  faint.    A  digger  with  a  spade 
Is  scooping  out  my  grave !    The  night  is  still ; 

1  seem  to  hear  the  babbling  of  a  rill ; 

The  starry  heavens  spread  above  my  grave ; 
I  enter  there !    Yet  will  this  madman  fill 
The  cell?    Ah,  yes!    The  willows  o'er  me  wave  ; 
I  tear  my  clotted  locks !    'Mid  worms  and  weeds  I  rave ! 

LVIII. 

And  yet  we  all  must  enter  there  !    'Tis  stange, 
Yet  so  it  is.    But  shall  I  perish  here  ? 
Ah !  many  a  grave  beside  the  rural  grange  ! 
Thy  friend  will  drop  the  sympathetic  tear  ; 
But  that  is  all  ;  and  varying  year  on  year, 
You  there  will  lie  alone.    Nor  shall  the  day 
Be  day  to  thee,  the  night  with  mellow  cheer ; 
And  men  shall  make  a  path  across  your  way, 
Your  children's  children,  too,  unconscious  there  will  play. 

LIX. 

And  yet,  is  this  the  last  ?    To  native  dust 
Shall  I  return,  and  that  is  all  ?  I  start ; 
I  feel  the  vault ;  there  is  the  smell  of  must ! 
O  where  the  solace  for  the  loving  heart ! 
And  where,  O  Consolation !  when  they  part, 
Shall  kindred  find  thee  ?    If  the  grave  is  all, 
Why  still  this  horror  of  the  winged  dart  ? 
We  drink  the  wine-dregs,  and  the  bitter  gall, 
And  yet  we  cling  to  life,  a  flower  too  soon  to  fall ! 


4  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.        495 

LX. 

And  yet  they  laid  my  Poet  there ;  and  stars 
Look  down  alone,  aye  watchful  of  his  rest. 
Across  the  fields  we  hear  the  rushing  cars ; 
The  sun  has  shone ;  in  beauty  there  has  drest 
The  flowery  scene ;  and  now  across  the  west, 
Is  wheeling  like  a  fiery  shield ;  and  yet 
They  do  not  tell  me  if  my  bard  is  blest, 
Or  that  some  kindred  spirit  he  has  met, 
Who  like  himself  has  paid  to  death  so  dear  a  debt. 

LXI. 

They  do  not  tell  me  if  his  gracious  soul 

Has  gone  to  Heaven ;  if  Heaven  there  be.    The  doubt 

Has  crossed  the  page.    The  waters  seem  to  roll ; 

A  wide  and  angry  sea.    The  lamps  are  out ; 

A  bell ;  there  seems  a  never-ending  route ; 

Is  Heaven  at  the  end  ?    O  Wordsworths  write ! 

0  Carlylesl  Dantes!  Bards  of  Avon!    Shout 

The  hoarse  waves.    Far  across  a  fathomless  night ; 
And  yet  a  glimmer  there  of  a  Throne  of  spotless  white ! 

LXII. 

Ah,  who  may  say  ?    Write  back,  O  lovely  Bard ! 
And  with  thy  language  born  of  heaven  say : 
"O  ye  of  earth,  the  lowly  and  the  starred, 
Shall  find  a  heaven  lovelier  than  the  day !" 
But  comes  no  voice.    'Tis  stil!6d  aye  and  aye ; 
For  from  the  tomb  no  man  may  make  reply. 
We  turn  the  leaf,  and  flowers  are  dead  in  May ; 
And  yet  that  he  of  all  the  rest  should  die ! — 
I  know  my  tears  are  vain  ;  is't  wrong  that  I  should  cry  ? 

LXIII. 

Forgive  me  if  I  mourn  above  his  worth ; 
Yet  mine  is  not  a  wild  and  sudden  grief ; 
He  dropped  his  pen  and  children  hushed  their  mirth ; 

1  saw  their  tear-stains  on  the  bordered  leaf; 
For  death  had  come  upon  them  like  a  thief, 
And  fell  their  tears  like  rain.    While  I  alone, 
Saw  all  his  life-deeds  gathered  in  a  sheaf ; 

A  grand  career,  and  at  the  end  a  stone, 
Beside  his  new-made  grave  that  it  should  still  be  known. 

LXIV. 

But  weeks  and  months  had  rounded  out  the  years, 
Ere  all  his  worth  was  known  to  me ;  so  now 


THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

I  drop  for  him  my  unaffected  tears, 
And  like  a  friend  beside  his  tomb-stone  bow ; 
And  should  you  ask,  I  could  not  tell  you  how 
I  find  him  loved  at  last.    You  love  the  maid, 
And  all  the  world  has  not  her  like.    You  vow 
Your  vows.    You  know  not  why  your  heart  has  strayed ; 
So  death  and  time  to  me  have  holier  sweetness  made. 

LXV. 

A  sweetness  that  is  sweeter  in  its  tears, 
For  death  and  lowly  worth  are  side  by  side ; 
They  lend  a  beauty  to  the  perished  years ; 
For,  ah!  until  our  dearest  friend  has  died, 
We  know  not  he  in  all  the  world  beside 
Was  greater  with  the  greatness  of  his  love, 
And  for  his  like  the  world  is  not  so  wide 
To  hold  his  equal.    So  the  stars  above 
Have  sadly  mourned  his  death.    We  see  a  winged  dove. 

LXVI. 

A  thousand  things  have  touched  us  now.    And  birds 
Of  holiest  wing  seem  sweetly  hovering  round. 
We  seem  to  hear  the  beauty  of  his  words ; 
The  soulless  earth  is  now  enchanted  ground 
Where  once  he  walked.    A  thousand  things  abound 
With  myriad  claims.    We  love  them  now!    But  then 
We  knew  them  not ;  for  while  his  voice  did  sound, 
The  sky,  the  cloud,  the  bird  from  mossy  glen, 
No  more  the  thought  had  held  than  march  of  arm£d  men. 

LXVII. 

For  once  they  passed  their  presence  was  forgot. 
Our  greatest  wish  shall  still  prevail.  "We  bow 
Unconscious  to  our  fate.    We  see  a  blot, 
And  tho'  to  blame,  we  still  are  wondering  how 
It  came  about.    The  dust  from  some  old  mow 
Has  filled  our  eyes.— I  get  confused.    My  thought 
Has  led  me  wild.    This  prestige  I  allow, 
Till  from  a  mouldy  dungeon  I  have  brought 
A  medley  of  ideas  to  motley  shapes  enwrought. 


But  yet  the  tangled  threads  I  gather  up ; 
For  e'en  confusion  has  a  charm.    I  joy 
At  times,  in  myriad  scenes.    The  sparkling  cup 
O'erbrims.    Above  the  emerald  waves  "ahoy!" 
In  sailor's  twang  is  heard.    I  am  a  boy 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH   OF  LONGFELLOW.        497 

With  all  a  boy's  imagination.    I 
Fling  out  the  reins  to  thought.    The  painted  buoy 
Is  dancing  as  my  mind.    The  bended  sky. 
With  many  a  sailing  cloud,  is  speechless  there  on  high. 


And  yet  it  seems  as  wild  as  I.    The  mind 
Has  made  it  so ;  and  yet  it  is  a  dream 
Of  imagery.    What  castle  do  we  find 
Upon  the  banks  of  some  historic  stream, 
When  wildered  fancy  roams  unchid !    The  gleam 
Of  bannered  turrets  flashes  on  the  eye, 
The  swashing  wave.    How  natural  all  does  seem ; 
A  reaching  wood,  and  over  all  the  sky 
Where  many  a  cloudy  ship  in  majesty  passes  by. 

LXX. 

And  yet  wherever  fancy  roams  there  starts 
The  sweet  suggestion  of  his  presence.    He 
Had  made  himself  the  guest  of  many  hearts, 
In  many  a  foreign  clime  beyond  the  sea, 
And  there  in  homes  of  rarest  heavenly  beauty, 
A  welcome  bard  he  sang  his  lay.    The  pure 
He  made  more  pure.    His  lavish  love  was  free, 
And  with  it  did  he  inoffensive  lure 
To  bright  eternal  skies.    For  him  they  would  endure. 

LXXI. 

And  so  he  led  them  on ;  and  when  he  died, 
They  felt  his  loss.    They  mourned  it.    And  the  tears 
Were  on  their  lashes.    Near  him  side  by  side, 
In  thought  they  stood ;  for  golden  were  the  years 
To  them  because  of  him.    They  had  no  fears 
That  he  should  go  ;  but  how  to  spare  a  friend 
They  loved  so  well ;  and  yet  no  hand  appears, 
To  offer  high  rebuke.    Their  prayers  blend, 
And  by  a  slab  they  pause  that  tells  them  of  the  end ! 

LXXII. 

O  Death !  why  art  so  reckless  in  thy  choice  ? 
Why  take  the  purest  life  of  all  ?    His  door 
Was  ope  to  every  one ;  but  with  no  voice 
You  passed  through !    The  clouds  began  to  lower, 
And  then  the  news  of  death,  from  shore  to  shore, 
A  sad  unlovely  tale,  went  winged  far, 
Till  maid  and  peasant  told  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  from  the  heavens  fell  the  falling  star, 
Till  thro'  the  mourning  street  slow  passed  his  funeral  car. 
33 


498  TEE  LADY  OF  DRDALE. 

LXXIII. 

But  he  is  dead !    From  out  a  happy  land 
His  spirit  went ;  and  there  in  holier  clime 
He  dwells  at  last,  if  so  we  understand 
The  teaching  of  divinest  Word.    The  chime 
Of  happy  bells  was  broken ;  bordered  rhyme 
In  plaintive  numbers  rang.    A  chorister  led 
A  mourning  choir,  and  rose  with  wounded  time 
The  voice  of  grief.    The  parting  tear  was  shed, 
And  sorrow  filled  the  heart  that  loved  bard  was  dead  I 

LXXIV. 

And  such  a  life !    E'en  faultless  as  his  verse 
In  briefest  song.    A  thousand  we  could  spare 
For  one  so  sweet.    And  yet  I  need  rehearse 
They  still  remain  to  us ;  but  he  is — where  ? 
A  spirit  hovering  in  the  voiceless  air  ? 
Or  mouldering  in  the  sodden  ground  alone, 
Where  tangled  weeds  and  flowers  grow,  and  Care 
Has  been  dethroned  ?  for  once  the  life  is  flown, 
Our  one  remaining  act  is  sculptured  on  his  stone. 

LXXV. 

The  wreathed  stone  that  tells  the  last  sad  rite 
Is  o'er  of  earthly  love.    The  rest  is  doubt 
Or  faith  that  reaches  thro'  the  kenless  night 
Spanning  between  the  tomb  and  ended  route, 
Where  human  eyes  with  chastened  Hope  reach  out* 
Till  ship  at  sea,  no  land  in  sight,  they  fall 
At  last,  and  earth  with  naked  limbs  that  flout 
In  Autumn's  blast,  becomes  an  herbless  ball, 
And  thou,  mysterious  Night,  the  canopy  over  all. 

LXXVI. 

But  lovely  Hope !  I  own  thee  to  the  last, 
Though  wise  men  tell  me  thou  art  vain ;  for  I 
Exalt  thee  o'er  the  Doubt  that  sweepeth  past, 
And  says  there  is  no  God.    And  though  I  cry, 
I  still  have  faith  that  tho'  my  poet  die, 
His  soul  has  gone  to  Heaven.    And  'twere  not  so, 
Yet  still  I'd  soar  the  great  mysterious  sky, 
With  largest  hope,  though  I  may  never  know 
What  lies  beyond  the  grave,  where  every  route  may  go. 


And  yet  a  something  in  the  human  heart 
Has  told  us  all  is  well.    For  He  is  good 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW. 

Beyond  compare ;  since  even  when  the  dart 
Of  death  has  pierced  the  bridegroom  where  he  stood, 
We  know  the  maid  that  he  so  fondly  wooed, 
Will  find  a  solace  for  her  bitter  tears ; 
For  reason  comes,  and  better  so  it  should, 
To  sweeten  yet  the  ever-varying  years, 
And  give  her  ripest  fruit  with  Autumn's  golden  ears. 

LXXVIII. 

At  first  she  could  not  think  it  for  the  best, 
But  higher  law  instinctively  prevails ; 
And  when  with  sweetest  flowerets  she  has  drest 
His  cold  white  form,  amid  her  tears,  her  wails, 
A  something  seems  to  come  from  quiet  vales, 
And  "all  is  for  the  best !"    And  so  the  bride 
New  made  in  twilight  hour,  with  freshest  gales 
Upon  her  breast,  finds  solace  tho'  he  died, 
For  e'en  in  greatest  grief  sweet  Hope  is  at  our  side. 

LXXIX. 

And  so  the  friends  of  our  dear  Cambridge  bard ; 
They  could  not  spare  him ;  still  when  he  was  gone, 
They  felt  an  angel  choir  had  crowned  and  starred, 
That  this  was  but  a  brighter,  lovelier  dawn, 
And  that  the  robes  celestial  were  put  on 
By  more  than  earthly  hands,  and  now  at  rest, 
The  cares  might  cross  the  flower-beds  on  his  lawn, 
And  he  amid  the  kingdom  of  the  blest 
Be  free  from  gnawing  care  that  lately  had  opprest. 

LXXX. 

So  even  death  may  be  "our  dearest  friend ;" 
And  could  we  know  the  splendors  yet  to  be, 
When  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  blend 
Before  that  higher  Court  beyond  the  Sea, 
That  now  divides  the  world  from  Heaven,  beauty 
Would  crown  the  flowery  mound  we  call  the  grave, 
And  all  the  fields  of  earth  would  soon  be  free 
To  run  to  weeds ;  for  Man  no  longer  Slave 
To  earth's  more  horrid  doubt  at  death  would  never  rave. 


But  life  is  sweet.     We  love  and  cannot  prove ; 
We  long  to  choose  the  best ;  the  eye  our  guide, 
For  faith  is  in  the  thing  we  like  or  love, 
And  to  the  skies  in  grandeur  spanning  wide, 
We  strain  the  natural  eye.    And  vVhen  he  died, 


600  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

'Twas  faith  that  saw.    So  little  do  we  know, 
We  join  what  seems  to  us  the  surer  side, 
And  rather  stay  than  as  a  traveller  go 
To  what  we  cannot  prove.    And  was  it  ever  so  ? 

LXXXII. 

Ah,  yes !    The  human  mind  will  seek  for  rest. 
A  wedless  maid  is  ne'er  at  ease,  but  lead 
Her  to  the  altar  and  her  life  is  blest, 
Contentment  on  her  face  the  world  may  read ; 
But  with  the  mind  atilt  on  faith,  we  need 
A  patient  heart.    But  once  we  reach  the  goal, 
A  load  is  lifted  from  our  lives,  and  freed 
From  every  burden  joy  steals  to  the  soul, 
And  all  our  golden  years  seem  rounded  to  a  whole. 

LXXXIII. 

For  after  all,  the  mind  gives  most  of  joy, 
Gives  all  our  joy.    So  he  who'd  win  in  life 
The  sweetest  part,  the  freedom  of  the  boy 
Must  have ;  no  irritation  at  the  strife 
Of  men.    But  where  the  simplest  things  are  rife, 
There  must  he  go ;  for  moderation  sweet 
Will  lend  a  rare  content,  the  reed  or  fife, 
The  hautboy,  or  some  instrument  rare,  a  treat 
He  has  not  dreamed  before  in  Nature's  rustic  seat. 

LXXXIV. 

For  Nature  in  her  simple  rustic  guise, 
Will  lend  enchantment  to  a  life  unknown ; 
For  here  with  rarest  treat  and  sweet  surprise, 
The  heart  may  find  a  pleasure  of  its  own, 
Amid  the  birds,  the  deeper  undertone 
Of  streams  below  the  mountains,  crashing  trees, 
And  toppling  giants  of  the  hill,  the  moan 
Among  the  woods,  monotony  of  the  breeze, 
And  Nature's  thousand  things  that  such  a  mind  may  please. 


And  here  amid  the  grand  old  woods  your  thought 
May  loving  turn  to  him  who  sang  their  songs 
In  forest  Hymn,  for  he  is  unf orgot ; 
And  part  of  old  Columbia's  love  belongs 
To  him,  for  Justice  never  poet  wrongs, 
Tho'  he  may  sing  a  different  strain ;  for  all, 
I  hold,  have  bound  us  with  the  golden  thongs 
Of  love,  and  by  a  shred  however  small, 
Yet  still  it  holds -the  heart,  tho'  death  has  spread  his  pall. 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.         501 

LXXXVI. 

In  spite  of  critics  truest  songs  will  live, 
Though  Art  has  never  writ  Evangelines ; 
Yet  all  the  world  will  love  them,  for  they  give 
A  sweet  delight.    The  epicure  that  dines 
On  dainty  food,  and  rare  Canary  wines, 
Will  learn  at  last  the  sweetest  things  can  cloy, 
For  things  are  dearest  sought  in  deepest  mines, 
That  Plenty  taketh  more  than  half  the  joy, 
That  still  we  love  the  maid  with  manners  shy  and  coy. 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  Art  I  love,  but  not  for  Art's  sake.    I 
Prefer  a  weed  among  the  flowers.    To  see 
A  world  of  sweets !— Variety's  in  the  sky ! 
If  only  blue,  satiety  there  would  be 
To  every  kind.    Our  Cowper  loved  the  lea, 
But  rarest  variation  in  the  scene 
Was  his  delight.    For  Art's  monotony, 
As  all  our  Wildes  have  shown.    But  hollies  green 
Are  on  the  brow  of  him  of  Poesy's  rustic  Queen. 

LXXXVIII. 

In  hands  of  few,  a  Keats,  a  Shelley,  and 
Our  Tennyson  sweet,  Art  has  won  the  world, 
And  led  them  more  than  captive  by  the  hand ; 
For  in  their  songs  the  brooks  have  sweeter  purled, 
The  stars  upon  their  banners  shine  unfurled 
With  more  of  beauty.    Art  in  lesser  hands 
Is  only  Art.    The  Autumn  leaves  are  whirled, 
And  Desolation  sweeps  across  the  lands, 
Yet  only  Genius  sees.    Art  never  understands. 

LXXXIX. 

But  what  avails  ?    Each  man  shall  have  his  taste. 
And  who's  the  judge  to  say  him  nay  ?    Not  I. 
I  love  the  lines  of  Maud,  they  seem  so  chaste, 
And  Enoch,  Hanging  of  the  Crane.    The  sky 
Has  myriad  splendors.    Clouds  are  moving  by ; 
I  find  a  beauty  in  them  all.    So  they, 
The  bards,  have  won  me,  and  I  know  not  why ; 
But  rarest  beauties  all  along  the  way, 
Have  half  unconscious  won.    I  love  them  while  they  stay. 


And  when  they've  gone ;  for  each  has  left  a  line 
That  has  a  beauty  of  its  own.    A  snatch 


502  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Of  song,  of  verse  that  seemeth  half  divine ; 
And  when  I  lay  a  hand  upon  the  latch 
Of  him  who  sang  and  died,  I  seem  to  catch 
The  inspiration  that  he  still  is  there ; 
And  yet  I  know  him  dead  with  none  to  match 
The  beauty  of  his  song.    And  on  the  stair 
I  seem  to  see  him  come  with  still  unfaded  hair. 

xci. 

And  yet,  O  Death !  I  know  you  crossed  his  walk, 
An  uninvited  guest ;  but  still  I  doubt ; 
And  with  his  friends  I  seem  to  hear  him  talk 
In  his  old  kindly  way ;  and  yet  are  out 
His  study-lamps.    And  naked  treetops  flout 
Against  his  windows.    Darkness  in  his  room, 
And  darkness  in  his  home,  along  the  route 
Where  he  had  walked  alone,  amid  the  bloom, 
Ere  thou,  O  tearless  Death !  had  placed  him  in  the  tomb ! 


But  now !    What  can  I  say  ?    O  empty  House ! 
O  flower-beds  all  in  vain !  O  lovely  nooks 
When  he  was  there!— That  sound!— The  stealing  mouse?— 
Nay !  nay !  a  form  with  empty  hands  and  looks ! — 
A  sadness  in  the  babbling  of  the  brooks  ! 
A  voice  is  crying  through  the  solemn  nights ; 
We  seem  to  hear  the  cawing  of  the  rooks ; 
His  pen  has  stopped  !  a  flashing  of  the  lights  ; 
And  then  a  sweep  of  wings,  and  Death  has  crossed  the  heights ! 


And  then,  O  World  !  the  sad  tale  went:  "The  trees 
Of  Spring  were  budding  to  the  leaf.    The  land 
Was  clothed  with  green  ;  in  nook  and  dell  all  beauties 
Greeted  the  eye ;  and  sweetly  hand  in  hand, 
The  Paphian  boys  of  Spring,  (while  breezes  fanned,) 
Tripped  softly  here  and  there  and  everywhere ; 
And  rosy  Loves  on  many  a  flowery  stand, 
Made  little  speeches  to  the  'faultless  fair,' 
And  laughing  maids  were  crowned  amid  the  gladdening  air. 

xciv. 

"The  world  seemed  never  sweeter;  all  around 
The  land  was  gay ;  and  life  was  on  the  wind, 
With  rarest  beauties  scattered  o'er  the  ground, 
Till  Pleasure  ruled  the  heart,  the  head,  the  mind, 
And  rarest  joys  went  rampant,  unconfined, 


A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LONGFELLOW.        503 

With  not  a  hint  of  slow  approaching  woe, 
With  not  a  hint  the  teardrops  soon  would  blind, 
With  not  a  hint  the  summer  flowers  would  blow 
Upon  a  new-made  grave  of  him  we  lovkd  so ! 

xcv. 

"But  waned  March,  and  like  a  bloodless  thief, 
A  whited  form  shot  thro'  the  night ;  and  when 
We  looked,  Death!  was  writ  upon  the  leaf  ! 
And  stilled  was  the  hand  that  held  the  pen  ! 
We  seemed  to  hear  the  chirping  of  a  wren ; 
A  sudden  sadness  seemed  to  cross  the  land ; 
And  came  a  strangeness  o'er  the  hearts  of  men ; 
A  little  child  could  lead  them  by  the  hand, 
For  true  unfeigned  grief  the  people  had  unmanned. 

xcvi. 

"And  then  the  great  House  he  had  made  so  grand, 
Took  on  the  weeds  of  woe.    Upon  the  bell 
A  dark  crape  hung.    They  could  not  understand, 
The  children  he  had  loved  when  all  was  well ; 
And  when  the  news  came  he  was  dead,  with  knell 
Of  some  sad  bell,  they  could  not  realize 
What  had  their  dear  and  loved  bard  befell ; 
But  some  one  told  them  that  in  Paradise 
He  now  had  gone  to  dwell  with  th'  true  ones  and  the  wise. 

xcvn. 

"And  last,  they  saw  the  sadly  winding  train 
Go  slowly  down  the  streets.    The  solemn  hearse 
They  saw  it  move.    'As  mist  resembles  rain' 
His  death  resembled  sleep.    O  what  was  worse 
Than  that  the  lovely  singer  of  their  verse 
Should  move  so  slowly  to  the  silent  tomb, 
And  thou,  O  Mother  Nature !  as  the  nurse, 
High  falling  from  thy  office  see  the  bloom 
Of  Auburn's  saddest  flowers  with  all  the  land  in  gloom  ! 

XCVIII. 

"How  sad,  O  March  !  to  hold  so  dear  a  form 
In  vergex  of  Spring,  the  wild  vines  clambering  there 
In  wanton  'ray,  as  if  to  breast  the  storm 
Of  thee,  O  March  !  and  guard  the  precincts  where 
They  laid  him !— Such  is  life.    The  bravest  dare 
'The  coming  bulk  of  Death ;'  but  at  the  last 
The  stoutest  heart  will  bow ;  the  sweet,  the  fair, 
The  high,  the  low ;  and  treetops  in  the  blast, 
Will  breathe  a  solemn  dirge  while  friends  their  flowerets  cast. 


504 


THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 


"Yet  death  is  commonplace ;  thro'  all  the  land 
He  marches  bold ;  but  when  he  plucks  the  rose, 
We  sometimes  pause  and  cannot  understand ; 
We  sometimes  pause  and  wonder  at  our  woes ; 
We  see  a  life  that  came  to  sudden  close ; 
We  look  in  vain  for  reason  in  the  change ; 
We  cannot  rank  this  death  among  our  foes ; 
And  yet  this  mystic  power  that  does  estrange, 
We  cry  against,  against ;  we  cry  against  the  change !" 

c. 

But  faretheewell,  my  sweet  immortal  Bard ! 
And  faretheewell,  and  faretheewell !  my  love 
Is  all  I  have ;  but  Heaven  and  Earth  have  starred ; 
And  I  can  hope  thee  crowned  in  realms  above ! 
I  know  thou  wast  as  gentle  as  the  dove ;  . 
And  who  of  earth  could  wish  thee  more  than  I  ? 
Thou  hast  of  heaven  and  earth  the  rarest  love, 
And  sad  was  all  the  world  when  thou  didst  die, 
Though  every  loving  heart  felt  thou  wert  crowned  on  high  I 


WHAT  SAY  THE  WAVES? 


505 


WHAT  SAY  THE  WAVES? 

Wafting  their  treasures  from  over  the  seas, 
Kissed  by  the  sunlight  and  fanned  by  the  breeze, 
Sparkling  in  beauty  and  laughing  with  glee, 
Dancing  with  mischief,  capricious  and  free, 
What  is  the  message  the  merry  waves  bear 
Unto  the  child  in  its  innocent  care, 
Building  mock  castles  of  sand  in  its  play- 
Laughing  to  see  the  tide  sweep  them  away  ? 

Waiting  the  answer  of  weal  or  of  woe, 
List  to  the  waves  in  their  murmuring  low : 

"Hope  without  fear 

Brings  but  a  tear ; 

Loss  is  a  portion  that  childhood  must  bear, 
Learning  the  lesson  of  patience  and  care, 
Till  the  o'er-tried  are  forever  at  rest 
In  the  sweet  Home  on  the  shore  of  the  blest." 


Speeding  their  legions  from  many  a  zone, 
Spurned  by  the  tempest  with  thunder  and  moan, 
Voicing  an  anguish  they  never  may  know, 
What  do  the  sullen  waves  whisper  of  woe  ? 


506  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDALE. 

What  do  they  say  to  the  sorrowing  one 
Mourning  the  absence  of  husband  or  son — 
Loved  ones  they  never  again  may  restore 
To  the  arms  outstretched  and  heart  that  is  sore? 


Waiting  the  answer  of  weal  or  of  woe, 
List  to  the  waves  in  their  muttering  low : 

"Youth  is  a  tear; 

Manhood's  a  fear ; 
Grief  is  a  burden  humanity  bears, 
Less'ning  the  woe  or  escaping  the  cares, 
Only  when  hearts  are  forever  at  rest 
In  the  sweet  Home  on  the  shore  of  the  blest. 

Under  the  glow  of  the  westering  sun, 
What  do  they  say  to  the  wearisome  one, 
In  whose  locks  glisten  the  silver  of  years ; 
Who  thro'  the  gloom  of  his  desolate  tears 
Sees  in  each  ripple  a  vanishing  tie, 
Hears  in  each  throb  of  the  breakers  a  sigh, 
Knowing  that  never  again  will  he  roam 
Over  the  billows  light  crested  with  foam? 


LIFE-THOUGHTS.  507 


Waiting  the  answer  of  weal  or  of  woe, 
List  to  the  waves  in  their  whispering  low : 

"Born  of  a  tear, 

Living  in  fear, 

Man  may  escape  from  his  worry  and  toil, 
And  the  dark  billows  no  longer  turmoil, 
Only  when  hearts  are  forever  at  rest 
In  the  sweet  Home  on  the  shore  of  the  blest." 

— Georrje  Waldo  Browne. 


LIFE-THOUGHTS.* 

They  say :  "We've  babbled,  babbled  many  a  day, 
Ere  Man  was  known,  and  Chaos  feigned  supreme; 
We  saw  our  waters  parted  from  the  land, 
And  light  from  darkness  years  and  years  ago ; 
The  great  destruction  of  the  reptile  world, 
The  horrid  monsters  wallowing  in  our  depths ; 
The  sweep  of  great  Omnipotence,  at  last, 
Across  our  waters,  and  the  darkened  earth ; 

*Su#gested  by  the  dainty  poem  "What  Say  the  Waves?"  by  my  friend  and  pub- 
lisher, G.  Waldo  Browne. 


508  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  then  the  coming  of  the  being,  Man, 

In  all  his  glory,  clothed  with  beauty  rare, 

And  radiant  features  of  a  god,  a  picture,  , 

Of  the  great  God  of  gods  who  reigneth  in 

The  skies,  and  sways  the  myriad  worlds  with  power 

Omnipotent  through  all  eternity  great ; 

The  sweep  of  Time,  the  rising  Sun,  the  Moon 

That  shed  her  glory  on  the  midnight  world ; 

The  twinkling  stars,  the  beauty  of  the  dappled 

Skies,  Man  then  roaming  lord  of  all  created 

Things,  till,  to-day,  we  see  him  near  the  Nile, 

And  hear  of  Pyramids  that  reach  the  skies ; 

The  birth  of  worlds,  the  wonders  of  the  storm ; 

The  majesty  and  the  glory  of  the  Father 

Of  all  created  lands  and  peoples ;  then 

The  myriad  hosts  that  line  the  borders  of 

The  world,  till  trackless  forests  bloom  with  flowers, 

And  builded  cities  raise  their  thousand  turrets 

Against  the  far  unclouded  skies.    Then  Time 

Sweeps  on,  and  those  that  rose  from  Eden,  fall, 

And  all  their  seed,  then  came  the  floods,  an  Ark 

The  one  remaining  haven  of  the  land, 

Till  all  our  waters  fell,  and  land  on  Ararat's 

Unwatery  Mount  gave  tidings  of  the  end 

That  was  to  be.    And  then  the  valleys  bloomed 

With  rose,  and  twining  vine  made  beauty  there, 

And  all  the  land  was  dry.    Man  multiplied 

Upon  the  earth,  till  Sin,  bold  fronted,  came, 

And  then  the  reign  of  Woe  that  brought  our  God 

From  out  the  throned  Heavens  to  herald  Peace, 

Good  will  to  man,  and  all  his  kin,  till  late 

We  saw  a  better  world,  and  heaven  on  earth 

To  those  that  will,  with  Plenty  smiling  in 

The  land,  and  preached  Word  in  Egypt's  vales, 

And  old  Australia's  Pagan  shrines,  upon 

Our  waters,  and  along  the  shores  of  Night, 

The  offspring  of  benighted  minds,  till  Time 

Has  shot  his  arrows  through  intensest  glooms 

Of  Ignorance  and  Doubt,  and  thousand  things 

That  once  perplext  the  human  mind,  and  chained 

The  world  to  golden  gods  of  worship,  now 

Thrown  prostrate  with  the  earth.    And  thus  our  waves 

Have  seen  and  said  in  never-ending  tale, 

For  Time  is  endless,  and  so  long  as  time, 

These  things  will  be,  will  come  and  go,  and  leave 

No  trace  behind  save  that  of  Truth,  and  things, 

And  deeds,  and  works,  akin  of  Him  who  reigns 

Above  the  myriad  worlds  in  all  His  glory !" 


CAROLINE. 


"So  Innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple."— Lord  Tennyson. 

From  the  city  he  had  come ; 
"Yellow-banded  bees  that  hum 
Softly  'mid  the  summer  flowers, 
Do  you  love  this  world  of  ours? 
Love  the  quiet  country  nooks, 
Where  are  springs  and  babbling  brooks? 
Where  from  morn  to  even's  prime, 
Sweetest  joy-bells  softly  chime. 

"I  am  lonely  even  here, 
Tho'  the  land  be  full  of  cheer, 
And  the  birds  and  flowerets  fair, 
Have  a  soft  angelic  air ; 
For  a  name  has  come  to  me, 
Like  a  music  o'er  the  sea, 
And  it  soundeth  half  divine 
In  the  name  of  Caroline." 

And  he  rambled  o'er  the  wold, 
Where  the  flowerets  red  and  gold, 
Bowed  their  heads  with  sparkling  dew. 
Nodding  back  as  he  went  thro' ; 
And  the  grasses  dewy  green, 
Waved  amid  the  flowery  scene ; 
Yet  above  them,  half  divine, 
Fell  the  name  of  Caroline. 

"What  is  love?"  and  o'er  the  wall, 
Where  the  flowerets  sweet  and  small, 
With  the  weeds  were  tangled  up, 
Side  by  side  the  dews  did  sup, 
Clambered  then  the  city  youth, 
Clambered  careless  of  the  ruth 
Of  the  god  beneath  the  pine 
Softly  singing  Caroline. 

Covered  o'er  with  clinging  moss. 
Where  the  zephyrs  sweet  did  toss 

509 


510  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Many  a  floweret  blooming  lone, 
Kan  the  wall  with  tumbled  stone ; 
While  the  farmhouse  there  anear 
In  its  vines  did  soft  appear, 
Till  the  weed  and  tangled  vine 
Breathed  the  name  of  Caroline. 

Then  the  farmhouse  with  its  flowers, 
Seemed  from  other  worlds  than  ours 
And  he  sat  upon  the  wall, 
Thinking,  thinking  of  a  small 
Little  foot  he  once  had  seen 
Near  a  home  embowered  green, 
Where  had  lived  the  maid  divine 
With  the  name  of  Caroline. 

He  was  hunting  with  the  lark ; 
Early  morn  had  flung  her  dark 
'Gainst  the  lovely  western  skies ; 
From  the  east  the  mellow  dyes 
Painted  beauties  on  the  wold ; 
While  a  scene  of  gaudy  gold, 
Lay  so  sweet  beneath  his  eyne 
Birds  seemed  singing  Caroline. 

"Hunting  in  the  early  morn, 
By  a  huntsman  half  forlorn, 
Ere  the  lark  has  flung  the  dew 
Off  his  wing  beneath  the  blue, 
May  be  sport  for  country  swains ; 
But  to  me  a  voice  complains 
Far  from  cave  or  hidden  mine, 
In  the  name  of  Caroline !" 

And  the  sun  clomb  up  the  hill, 
Sparkled  down  the  mountain  rill, 
Pierced  the  forest  waving  green, 
Lent  a  beauty  to  the  scene, 
Painted  pictures  by  the  brook, 
Nature's  panoramic  book, 
Where  he  read  the  magic  line ; 
"All  the  world  is  Caroline !" 

"Why  a  certain  maid  to  me 
Has  more  beauty  than  the  lea, 
With  its  flowers  pied  and  blue, 
Drinking  in  the  morning  dew, 


CAROLINE. 

With  its  verdure  rich  and  rare, 
Flinging  beauty  everywhere, 
Passes  all  the  art  of  mine,  ] 
When  I  think  of  Caroline." 

And  a  ditty  seemed  to  frame 
'Round  the  beauty  of  her  name, 
Till  a  song  both  sad  and  sweet, 
All  the  birds  did  there  repeat, 
All  the  streams,  and  all  the  rills, 
Echoing  o'er  the  sunlit  hills, 
Till  the  air  and  earth  divine 
Breathed  the  name  of  Caroline. 

SOXG. 
As  a  harebell  in  the  breeze, 

With  a  language  half  divine, 
Poets  sing  the  lovely  name 

Of  the  lovelier  Caroline. 

She  is  sweet,  and  she  is  fair, 
She's  a  jewel  from  the  mine, 

And  the  flowerets  in  her  hair 
In  their  beauty  there  may  shine. 

From  the  city  came  a  youth, 
Singing  soft  of  auld  lang  syne, 

And  his  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 
When  he  saw  our  Caroline. 

Flew  the  days  and  darling  years, 
Sang  the  waters  sweetly  by ; 

Who  could  blame  the  maiden  fair 
For  the  lover's  sob  and  sigh  ! 

Since  of  earth  she  was  a  flower 
In  her  own  dear  native  dale ; 

Blooming  like  an  artless  rose 
Down  beside  the  sobbing  vale. 

Naught  of  art  had  made  her  fair, 
Nature  made  her  as  she  was ; 

Sweeter  than  the  highest  art, 
Never  solved  by  lovers'  laws. 

And  he  saw  her  by  her  home, 
Hidden  in  its  dusty  vines; 


512  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  the  air  was  full  of  songs, 
And  the  lovely  Carolines. 

Now  we  see  him  hunting  there 
For  the  wild  and  fatted  game ; 

While  the  hills  and  meadows  round 
Seemed  to  echo  but  her  name. 

Till  he  said :  "I  will  propose, 
And  the  priest  will  come  divine ; 

And  the  heart  I'll  claim  for  aye 
Of  the  faultless  Caroline!" 

And  the  maid  a  floweret  fair, 
With  the  lilies  in  her  hand, 

Was  to  him  a  sweet  Queen  Mab, 
Loveliest  lady  in  the  land. 

To  his  "will  you?"  said  she  "yes!" 
To  his  questions  said  she  "aye ;" 

Till  you  hear  the  merry  bells 
Tinkling  out  their  wedding  day ! 

And  the  tale  went  round  about  • 
"He  was  luckiest  out  of  nine, 

Who  with  pretty  words  and  wiles 
Won  the  lovely  Caroline  !" 


OUR  MABEL. 


Little  Mabel,  did  you  know  her, 
Did  you  know  her  in  her  bloom, 

Ere  the  whited  steed  of  Heaven 
Laid  her  gently  in  the  tomb  ? 

She  had  passed  her  sixteen  summers 

Like  a  lily  of  the  vale, 
Till  we  saw  her  still  and  silent 

In  her  beauty  sweet  and  pale. 

For  a  shadow  came  unbidden, 
And  when  softly  fell  the  night 

Did  we  see  our  lovely  Mabel 
Like  a  lily  cold  and  white ! 


OUR  MABEL. 

And  the  night  was  long  and  dreary 
With  our  darling  cold  in  death, 

With  no  quiver  in  the  eyelid, 
And  no  movement  of  the  breath. 

And  so  still !  and  oh  so  silent! 

Oh  so  cold  and  marble  white, 
Like  a  lovely  wingless  angel 

In  her  robes  celestial  bright ! 

And  her  hair  so  soft  and  lovely, 
Gently  veiled  her  marble  brow, 

Lending  more  than  earthly  beauty, 
More  than  earthly  beauty  now ! 

Once  she  seemed  like  other  maidens, 
With  her  pretty  girlish  ways ; 

But  in  death  it  seemed  that  Heaven 
Had  encrowned  with  starry  rays ! 

Soon  the  cars  were  speeding  onward, 

For  in  pretty  Somerville 
Slept  her  little  sister  Annie 

In  the  graveyard  white  and  still ! 

In  the  saintly  rosewood  coffin 

Was  our  little  Mabel  laid, 
And  with  lilies  of  the  valley 

Was  her  lovely  form  arrayed ! 

And  a  pillow  made  of  flowers, 
White  as  winter's  driven  snow, 

Seemed  to  bloom  with  holy  beauty 
Tho'  the  teardrops  there  did  flow. 

And  the  pretty  name  of  Mabel 
Out  of  violets  blue  was  made, 

And  a  sickle  formed  of  roses 
On  the  coffin  there  was  laid. 

And  the  saintly  calla  lilies 
Vied  with  many  a  lovely  rose, 

While  the  softly  trailing  smilax 
Twined  in  little  knots  and  bows. 

Flowers  cut,  and  sweet  tube  roses, 
Bouquets  fresh  and  lilies  rare, 

Lent  their  white  and  saintly  beauty 
To  her  beauty  faultless  fair. 

34 


5 1 4  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DABDALE. 

But  at  last  the  farewell  teardrop 
On  the  holy  features  fell, 

And  amid  the  lowly  sobbings 
Fell  the  parents'  last  farewell ! 

Then  arnid  the  glistening  snow-fields 
Was  the  funeral  cortege  staid, 

Till  within  the  whited  churchyard 
Pretty  Mabel  there  was  laid. 

And  with  little  sister  Annie 
In  the  graveyard  there  she  lies, 

With  the  glistening  snows  around  her, 
'Xeath  the  cold  and  pallid  skies. 


THIS  WORLD  IS  BUT  A  DREAM. 


This  world  is  but  a  dream ;  we  come  and  go, 

And  in  the  churchyard  lies  a  broken  stone 

That  tells  with  faded  letter  all  we  were, 

A  nothing  in  the  world  of  things ;  and  yet 

We  strutted  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

As  all  the  earth  were  ours,  and  we  alone 

The  captain  of  a  wondrous  host ;  but  dead, 

Our  name  is  soon  forgot,  and  thro'  our  dust 

The  trampling  school-boy  goes,  the  clown,  or  king, 

A  nd  not  a  shred  to  tell  them  once  we  were ; 

Oh  foolish  dream !    The  drama  is  a  farce, 

And  puppets  of  a  freakish  will  we  act 

The  part  of  clowns,  and  call  it  great, 

And  when  we  die  we  think  the  world  will  bow 

Beside  our  new-made  grave !    And  yet  we  look 

From  first  to  last,  and  tho'  a  god  of  wisdom, 

The  world  has  never  missed  us,  scarce  a  tear 

Has  dropped ;  a  thousand  more,  it  seems,  fill  up 

Our  place.    The  sun  does  rise  and  set,  and  Business 

Goes  bustling  thro'  the  streets  as  yore.    Take  heed, 

You  come  unasked,  and  soon  inherit  traits 

The  world  has  known  these  thousand  years.    The  path 

Is  worn  by  myriad  feet ;  and  still  you  think  : 

"  'Tis  I !  and  ever  such  a  man  before  ?" 

And  proud  of  what  is  gray  with  years  you  strut 

As  tho'  the  first  of  human  kind.    And  worlds 


SUSIE  MAY.  515 

Have  bowed?    No,  no  !  'tis  siren  Fancy,  she 

Has  made  you  so.    But  move  within  your  dream ; 

The  mother  that  has  rocked  your  cradle,  she 

Has  made  you  god  of  all  the  world ;  but  time 

Will  soon  forget  you  both.    The  laureled  warrior 

Has  wiped  his  sword,  and  time  forgets  his  deeds. 

Pause.    Life  is  power.    Glittering  crowns  are  mockers 

Upon  the  head  of  fools,  or  on  the  corpse 

Of  kings.    But  he  that  lives  in  death  is  great, 

And  Immortality  shineth  white  upon 

His  brow !    So  live  not  that  the  world  may  stare, 

But  so  that  death  may  never  kill ;  for  such 

Have  been,  and  may  be  still.    Let  Heaven'stare 

And  not  the  world ;  and  when  the  hour  is  near 

To  lay  your  gray  hairs  in  the  tomb,  feel  death 

Is  but  the  door  to  life  that  never  dies ! 


SUSIE  MAY. 


Once  did  little  Susie  Nichols 

Bloom  in  beauty,  bloom  in  love, 
In  a  home  made  joyous,  happy, 

By  her  presence,  little  dove ; 
She  was  pretty,  she  was  handsome, 

With  her  lovely  auburn  curls, 
Rosy  cheeks  and  lily  features, 

"The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls!" 

Always  sweet,  and  always  smiling, 

Full  of  fun,  and  lively,  gay, 
Three  years  old,  a  little  woman, 

Every  pretty  maid  would  say ; 
All  in  love  with  flowers  and  pictures, 

Liking  nature  gaily  dressed, 
Ever  good  and  sweet  to  mother, 

All  the  household  sweetly  blest. 

But  the  spring  was  hardly  blooming 
When  her  beauties  'gan  to  stray, 

And  the  roses  for  the  lilies 
Left  the  cheeks  of  Susie  May ; 


516  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

And  a-like  a  tender  flower 
In  the  chilly  autumn  dew, 

Life  was  fading,  life  was  fading, 
From  her  pretty  eyes  of  blue ! 

And  she  took  the  hand  of  mother 

As  upon  the  bed  she  lay, 
Saying :  "Kiss  me,  kiss  me,  mamma, 

Kiss  the  lips  of  Susie  May !" 
And  that  mother  full  of  sorrow, 

And  a  nameless,  nameless  dread, 
Kissed  the  lily  cheeks  of  Susie 

As  her  darling  then  were  dead. 

"For  I  love  you,  mother,  mother !" 

And  she  took  her  mother's  hand, 
"So  my  mother  lie  beside  me, 

Lie  beside  me  !"    And  the  Land 
Where  the  wingless  angels  wander 

Seemed  outstarting  from  the  scene, 
While  the  stricken,  stricken  mother, 

O'er  the  deathbed  soft  did  lean. 


Then  the  shadows  deepened,  deepened, 

Till  a  Presence  came  at  last, 
And  a  spotless  wreath  of  beauty 

On  her  little  brow  was  cast ; 
Then  the  tears,  and  then  the  wailing, 

Then  the  sobs  and  bitter  grief, 
For  the  hand  of  Death  had  written 

SUSIE  on  a  bordered  leaf ! 

Then  we  saw  her  sweetly  sleeping 

In  her  casket  white  as  snow, 
With  the  calla  lilies  o'er  her, 

As  to  hide  her  mother's  woe ; 
While  upon  the  little  casket 

Was  a  wreath  of  roses  rare, 
Vying  with  the  placid  beauty 

Now  so  pallid,  white  and  fair. 

And  a  bouquet,  too,  of  flowers, 
There  was  resting  on  the  lid, 

Whitest  roses,  whitest  lilies, 
With  a  whiter  Flower  amid ; 


UP  IN  HEAVEN.  51" 

But  to-day  she's  softly  sleeping 

'Neath  a  little  grassy  mound, 
Where  the  wildbirds  sing  their  carols, 

And  the  wildflowers  deck  the  ground. 


BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheeks  like  a  warm  white  rose? 
I  saw  something  better  than  anyone  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  at  once  gave  me  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  that  pretty  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  pretty  things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherub's  wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  just  to  be  you? 
God  thought  of  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

How  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 

God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here ! 

— George  Mac  Donald. 


UP  IN  HEAVEN. 

Where  have  you  gone  to,  baby  dear  ? 
Up  in  heaven  where  they  shed  no  tear. 

What  have  you  done  with  your  eyes  of  blue  ? 
Up  in  heaven  they're  looking  at  you. 


518  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DARDA  LE. 

That  pretty  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
The'Angels  will  tell  you  by  and  bye. 

The  cheeks  that  seemed  like  a  warm  white  rose  ? 
Gone  to  the  land  where  the  pure  baby  goes. 

And  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Up  in  the  skies  where  the  starlights  kiss. 

i 

What  have  you  done  with  that  pretty  ear? 
Up  in  the  blue  it  is  bending  to  hear. 

And  those  dimpled  arms  and  chubby  hands  ? 
Waiting  to  lead  you  to  holier  lands. 

Those  rosy  feet,  such  pretty  things  ? 
They  fly  thro'  the  air  on  cherub  wings. 

But  God  has  taken  them  all  from  you  ? 
Fmjan  angel  baby  across  the  blue. 

But  why  did  you  leave  us,  you  little  dear  ? 
God  wanted  a  baby,  and  so  I  am  here ! 


YOU  ARE  ALL  IN  ALL  TO  ME. 


You  are  all  in  all  to  me, 
And  my  heart  is  light  and  free, 
When  I  know  that  you  love  me,— 
My  mother. 

When  the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
And  the  great  round  moon  on  high, 
Do  I  ever  find  you  nigh, — 
My  mother. 

I  remember  long  ago, 
When  a  child  I  did  not  know 
All  thy  value  here  below,— 
My  mother. 

When  you  watched  with  me  at  night, 
And  the  teardrops  dimmed  your  sight, 
Falling  on  my  face  so  white,— 
My  mother. 


YOU  ARE  ALL  IN  ALL   TO  ME.  510 

While  the  fever  raged  and  burned, 
And  your  eyes  that  fondly  yearned, 
Up  to  heaven  in  prayer  were  turned,— 
My  mother. 

Then  how  thankful  when  it  past 
And  restored  to  health  at  last, 
Both  your  arms  were  round  me  fast, — 
My  mother. 

Ah !  but  now  I  know  your  worth, — 
Thou  the  one  dear  one  of  earth, 
Where  of  love  there  is  no  dearth, — 
My  mother. 

And  when  sickness  comes  to  thee, 
By  thy  bedside  would  1  be ; 
Thou  art  all  in  all  to  me,— 
Mjr  mother. 

And,  my  mother !  did  I  stay 
Ever  with  you  night  and  day, 
I  could  not  thy  love  repay,— 
My  mother. 

Thou  art  patient  and  so  kind, 
E'er  so  loving  and  resigned, 
Ever  leading  up  niy  mind, — 
My  mother. 

All  in  all  you  are  to  me ; 
All  in  all  you  e'er  may  be ; 
And  I'm  proud  to  say  to  thee, — 
My  mother. 

What  more  holy  and  divine 
Than  to  call  you  mother  mine, 
And  to  say  with  loving  sign, — 
"My  mother?" 

Bless  you !  bless  you !   May  you  be 
Ever  precious  till  the  Sea 
Rolls  between  us,  you  and  me,— 
My  mother. 

Then  so  precious,  even  more, 
Till  I  reach  the  pearly  Shore, 
And  shall  say  at  Heaven's  Door,— 
"My  mother!" 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS. 


You  ask  me,  dear,  what  perfect  thing 

I  find  in  all  my  wandering 

These  ancient  Sanskrit  scrolls  amid, 

Where  India's  deepest  heart  is  hid. 

Nothing,  I  answer,  half  so  wis^ 

As  one  glance  from  your  gentle  eyes ! 

Nothing  so  tender  or  so  true 

As  one  word  interchanged  with  you ! 

Because  two  souls  conjoined  can  see 

More  than  the  best  philosophy. 

Yet,  wise  and  true  and  tender  lore 

Waits  him  who  will  those  leaves  explore, 

Which,  plucked  from  palm  or  plantain  tree, 

Display,  in  Devanagari, 

The  grand,  sonorous,  long  linked  lines, 

Where  through  rhat  'Light  of  Asia'  shines! 

-Edwin  Arnold. 


The  little  clock  is  ticking ;  soft 
Its  silver  notes  have  gone  aloft, 
And  all  alone  I  sit  and  think, 
The  little  fancies,  link  on  link, 
Are  caught  as  flitting  butterflies, 
Beneath  the  warm  sweet  summer  skies ; 
And  roguish  Fancy,  left  at  will, 
Now  laughs  at  system,  like  a  rill, 
Soft  wanders  here  and  there,  till  Queen, 
The  mind  is  led  thro'  pastures  green, 
By  shady  nooks,  and  babbling  brooks, 
With  coyness  in  her  pretty  looks, 
A  bride  to  win  unwilling  hearts 
With  shy  and  unaffected  arts, 
And  lead  the  savage  captive  bound, 
With  daintiest  garlands  twined  around. 
The  winter  with  his  crystal  snows, 
Has  fled  the  fields ;  a  warm  wind  blows, 
And  evening  shadows  gather ;  lights 
Are  seen  across  the  gloom.    The  nights 
Are  precious  treats  to  me.    My  books 
Resting  as  soft  in  quiet  nooks 
520 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  521 

As  things  of  life  they  were,  with  thought 
By  time  to  finest  culture  wrought, 
Till  each  a  gem  I  wonder  how 
They  come  to  charm  me  so.    I  bow 
Beside  their  sweet  uncurtained  shrine ; 
Though  few  are  mine,  forever  mine ! 
Yet  scarce  a  hundred  books,  I  know, 
But  spanning  o'er  me  like  a  bow, 
With  myriad  beauties  soft  enwrought 
Till  in  their  meshes  I  am  caught 
A-like  a  Luna  queen  that  time 
Has  placed  in  some  old  classic  rhyme. 
But  pardon,  reader,  you  may  love 
The  green  grand  fields,  the  skies  above, 
The  myriad  stars  that  gem  the  blue, 
As  if  they  shone  alone  for  you ; 
And  yet  my  books  are  more  than  these, 
In  laureled  bindings  they  can  please, 
And  joy  my  every  mood.    Of  old 
The  poet  wandering  on  the  wold 
Beneath  the  warm  sweet  skies  could  tell : 
*'I  love  my  books,  and  love  them  well ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  spring, 
The  native  birds  that  know  to  sing, 
The  babbling  streamlets'  rustic  song, 
As  thro'  the  dells  they  pipe  along, 
Are  less  to  me,  yet  but  for  them 
Where  were  my  poet's  rarest  gem 
To  make  these  very  books !"    The  land, 
(And  let  me  lead  you  by  the  hand,) 
That  flows  with  honey  of  the  bee, 
With  hoarded  wealth  from  o'er  the  sea, 
And  California's  golden  grains, 
The  garnered  wealth  of  harvest  rains, 
Are  less  to  me  than  my  beautiful  books 
Now  resting  in  their  hallowed  nooks!— 
With  many  a  picture  rich  and  rare, 
My  poet  Rogers  shineth  there ; 
His  songs  were  simple ;  yet  to  me 
Pleasures  of  Memory,  light  and  free, 
Has  taught  me  many  a  quiet  taste. 
That  seemed  for  earth  too  pure  and  chaste ; 
For  Keats,  you  know,  found  coarseness  here ; 
To  Hunt  the  skies  were  sapphire  clear ; 
To  Byron  ruined  splendors  shone. 
While  all  outdoors  my  Burns  would  own. 
Campbell,  so  sad  and  softly  sweet, 
SShoweth  the  binder's  magic  feat, 


522  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

In  bevelled  covers  gilt  and  blue, 
With  twining  vines  soft  running  thro' ; 
Pleasures  of  Hope  they  come  to  me 
Like  lowly  benison  o'er  the  sea ; 
While  Gertrude. with  her  lovely  smile, 
A  Waldegrave's  heart  did  soft  beguile, 
And  taught  that  love  in  purity 
Was  holy  in  its  liberty, 
And  holier  far  when  from  the  heart 
It  comes  in  maidhood's  rustic  art. 
And  Coleridge  shrined  beside  him  there, 
Together  placed  in  binding  rare, 
The  same  dear  book  shall  hold  them  both, 
And,  critic  mine,  I  am  not  loath 
To  see  them  shining  side  by  side, 
With  each  to  each  in  love  allied ; 
The  gems  of  both  are  garnered  here 
By  some  wise  hand.    The  glittering  tear 
Like  dewdrops  have  they  fallen  down 
From  some  sweet  eyes  in  some  dear  town 
Upon  the  chastened  page.    E'en  now 
A  rustic  bard  may  fondly  bow 
Beside  their  shrine  of  verse,  for  time 
Has  hallowed  all  their  magic  rhyme 
To  one  as  yet  unknown  to  fame, 
None  knowing  whence  or  how  he  came. 
Enough !  what  bard  loves  not  the  verse 
That  balms  his  life  ?    He  may  rehearse 
His  holy  numbers,  for  'tis  sweet 
To  revel  in  the  wild  retreat 
Of  muses  born  in  heaven,  for  there 
All  things  are  pure  and  sweet  and  fair. 
Dante !  O  Italy  fair !    I  own 
He  has  a  sad  and  sober  tone, 
And  he  is  thine,  but,  na'theless, 
We  love  him  in  his  somber  dress, 
.   A  foreign  land  may  claim  him  too, 
For  here  the  skies  not  just  so  blue 
As  yours  o'er  soft  Italian  homes, 
Would  place  him  mid  her  rarest  tomes, 
And  shrine  him  in  the  heart.    I  love 
Them  all.    My  Goldsmith  pure.    Above 
The  stars  are  shining  on  his  grave, 
And  here  beside  the  babbling  wave 
I  listen  for  his  echoed  song ; 
For  where  the  waters  sing  along 
In  holy  sweetness,  time  has  said : 
"I  know  my  lovely  bard  is  dead,        « 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  523 

His  harp  still  echoes  far  and  near, 
And  rarest  mind  with  glistening  tear, 
Has  not  forgot  he  once  has  been !" 
Ah !  who  shall  reach  the  goal  and  win 
The  love  of  all  the  world?    My  bard, 
Nature  has  crowned  you,  she  has  starred, 
And  all  your  love  has  been  for  her, 
On  earth  her  loveliest  worshipper! 
The  Poets'  Lives.    Oh  Johnson  writ 
With  magic  pen.    The  owl's  to-whit 
May  boom  across  his  page,  yet  he, 
In  numbers  solemn  as  the  sea, 
Has  told  their  tale,  a  Boswell  true 
To  every  lovely  bard !    In  blue, 
With  glittering  gold  and  twining  vine, 
A  book  that  seems  of  heaven  divine, 
My  Shelley  comes.    No  forced  speech, 
No  gnarled  oak,  no  rugged  beech, 
But  cedars  soft,  and  singing  pines, 
In  solemn  sadness  move  his  lines, 
And  yet  no  mercy  had  the  wave, 
He  sank.    It  wellnigh  was  his  grave ; 
He  sank !    The  last  dear  book  of  Keats 
Was  next  his  heart !    The  same  tide  meets 
The  shore ;  but  time  has  not  a  word ; 
The  sky-lark  sings;  is't  Shelley's  bird? 

0  Earth !  and  who  of  all  shall  solve  thee  ? 
And  may  the  wisest  man  resolve  thee 
Into  greater  truths  that  are  to  be 
When  time 's  gulfed  in  Eternity  ? 

My  Wordsworth !  all  the  world  may  hate  thee, 

'Tis  hard  to  find  a  bard  to  mate  thee. 

For  me  I  love  thy  quiet  song, 

And  where  the  insect  you  would  wrong  ? 

The  little  flower  that  would  not  say 

A  something  worthy  of  thy  lay  ? 

A  yellow  primrose  by  the  brim 

That  did  not  give  a  hint  of  Him! 

And  do  I  love  you  none  the  less 

Tho'  yours  a  rustic  country  dress? 

Each  bard  his  trait.    I  love  them  all ; 

And  who  would  let  one  floweret  fall 

And  wither  in  the  roadway  dust? 

1  sorrow  when  the  pen  does  rust 
Of  him  who  built  such  holy  songs, 
For  him  the  crownless  poet  longs. 
O  rusting  Pen !  thou  hast  no  word, 
And  yet  the  mind  a  voice  has  heard 


524  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

In  melodies  for  earth  too  fine, 

The  ear  cannot  hear.    "Pis  divine. 

It  tells  of  beauties  once  that  were 

By  time  and  tide  made  lovelier, 

Of  days  that  saw  the  glittering  pen 

A  guess  of  time.    The  quill  was  then 

A  thing  divine.    My  Cowper,  I 

Still  feel  thy  holy  presence  nigh. 

Thy  book  of  sober  green,  with  gold, 

Is  faded  like  the  Autumn  wold 

Where  greenest  grasses  grew,  but  still, 

I  hear  the  merry-voiced  rill 

Soft  creeping  through  thy  rural  verse ; 

But  last  they  laid  thee  in  the  hearse. 

The  muses  loved  thy  quiet  ways, 

The  birds  could  understand  thy  lays, 

And  all  the  world  was  better  made 

Because  you  sang  e'en  while  you  prayed 

For  friend  and  stranger.    But  adieu, 

The  world  has  worse  to  love  than  you, 

My  Bard  of  Olney ! — Gold  and  red, 

With  tiny  harp,  where  time  has  shed 

A  mellow  glory,  is  a  book 

That  babbles  freshly  as  the  brook 

Beside  the  Rimini  routes ;  'tis  his, 

My  Hunt's,  the  friend  of  Keats,  I  wis, 

Who  loved  him  dearer  than  a  brother, 

And  when  without  him  found  none  other 

So  dear.    The  Feast  of  Poets,  sung 

By  him  ere  hoary  time  had  strung 

The  later  jewels  on  the  line, 

The  singers  that  the  laureled  Nine 

Have  won  from  nature's  coarser  arts, 

And  balmed  them  in  their  heart  of  hearts, 

Forever  and  forever.    Then 

In  order,  strangest  man  of  men, 

Proud  Byron,  bound  in  dark  grass  green, 

Making  the  Leaves  of  Grass,  I  ween, 

Come  surging  on  the  mind,  for  like 

Suggests  a  like.    Each  bard  may  strike 

The  same  gold  harp,  and  sad  and  weird 

The  tones  are  falling.    There  appeared 

Both  weeds  and  flowers,  and  who  may  say 

There's  none  of  beauty  in  Whitman's  lay  ? 

Woulds't  have  me  love  the  rose  alone  ? 

A  little  weed  if  sometimes  known 

Might  teach  the  way  to  Heaven.    Despise 

No  little  thing.    Beneath  the  skies 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  525 

Ensemble  has  its  perfect  work, 
For  in  its  subtilities  may  lurk 
The  germ  to  teach  of  things  to  be 
Within  the  great  Eternity ! 
My  lov£d  Milton !    On  the  back 
The  laurel  bushes  clime  a  winding  track 
Of  shining  gold.    A  tint  of  red, 
A  very  artist's  flower-bed, 
Now  vying  each  to  lend  a  charm 
To  hance  my  grand  old  bard,  so  calm, 
That  very  Heaven  is  taught  us.    He 
Might  teach  the  future  yet  to  be. 
The  Prince  of  Bards,  his  organ  tones 
High  echoing  to  the  skies.    He  owns 
The  glories  of  a  heavenly  verse ; 
What  other  bard  might  so  rehearse  ? 
Yet  each  his  style,  his  special  trait, 
His  art.    Both  early  morn  and  late, 
They  woo  the  lovely  mind,  and  earth 
Is  e'en  more  lovely  for  their  birth. 
Then  Scott,  outbreaking  of  the  field, 
The  fragrant  dell,  where  music  pealed 
From  mavis-bird,  and  waterfall, 
And  Nature  reigns  the  Queen  of  all, 
Does  join  my  song ;  the  warrior  bard, 
With  gems  and  diamonds,  silver-starred, 
In  many  a  line.    How  fresh  he  seems ! 
The  Tweed,  the  Yarrow,  softly  gleams 
Along  his  verse,  with  greenest  trees, 
And  flowers,  and  little  babbling  Dees, 
Aye  proud  of  Scotia's  laughing  vales, 
Her  warriors  clad  in  glittering  mails, 
Her  shaggy  heaths  and  mountain  sides, 
And  dear  old  Scotland's  rustic  brides. 
Adieu,  my  Scott !    I  love  thy  Lay ; 
Beauties  I  find  along  the  way 
Like  gathered  flowerets  wild  and  gay 
Half  hid  with  many  a  tangled  weed; 
But  kark !  the  music  of  the  Tweed 
To  Abbotsford  has  gone  to  sing 
O'er  him  who  never  more  may  sing ; 
So,  Dryburgh,  hold  his  precious  dust, 
And  what  cathedral  holier  trust ! 
My  reader,  you  may  love  the  stone 
That  seems  a  thing  of  life.    I  own 
The  two  are  kindred,  music  rare, 
And  Raphael's  art ;  the  four  are  fair, 
But  fairest  of  the  four  the  song 


526  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

By  magic  poet  writ.    I  wrong 

IjTo  one ;  I  love  them  all.    My  taste 

Is  for  the  last,  it  seems  so  chaste 

In  Shelley's,  Keats's  lovely  verse, 

And  Bard  of  England ;  may  the  hearse 

Ne'er  halt  before  his  door,  so  pure, 

So  sweet,  the  muses  he  would  lure 

To  rustic  grot  now  made  divine 

With  the  dainty  beauty  of  his  line. 

In  red  and  gold,  O  Robert  Burns ! 

Thy  book  lies  there.    The  leaflet  turns, 

And  crimson-tipped  flowers  by  Dee, 

On  shaggy  braes,  and  by  the  lea, 

Outstart  in  loveliest  colors  drest, 

By  little  zephyrs  kist,  carest, 

Till  by  the  Dee,  the  Ayr,  the  Doon, 

A  thralled  bard  beneath  the  moon, 

Is  walking  all  alone,  till  Shanter 

Goes  whirling  by  in  wildest  canter ; 

And  then  the  night  is  fading.    Morn 

Is  stealing  o'er  the  hilltops.    Lorn 

And  lone  the  poet  turneth  back, 

The  sands  are  glittering  in  his  track 

That  late  were  golden  grains.     The  dream 

Is  gone,  and  Burns  is  dead !    O  Gleam 

From  out  the  past !  you  came  a  ray 

That  like  the  caroled  wildbird's  lay, 

Was  e'en  too  sweet  to  last.    One  turns 

In  sadness  from  the  tomb  of  Burns, 

And  wipes  the  unbidden  tear.    O  Time! 

Thou'st  put  a  discord  in  my  rhyme, 

The  very  flowerets  that  he  sang 

Are  on  his  grave.    The  bushes  hang 

Above  the  Dee.    He  once  was  there! 

He  thought  his  Mary  faultless  fair ; 

But  both  have  gone.    The  sweet  ones  dead 

Can  never  more  return.    They  plead 

With  death,  he  had  nor  word  nor  tear, 

The  pale  white  flowers  upon  their  bier, 

Were  holy  all  in  vain !    To  die 

Is  sad  beneath  the  great  blue  sky, 

But  sadder  when  a  life  so  sweet 

Has  ebbed  away,  a  wild  retreat 

The  rustic  sepulchre  to  birds 

A  home,  for  friendship's  quiet  words 

Have  died  away  at  last,  and  Keats 

Forgot  in  nature's  wild  retreats ! 

In  binder's  plainest  dress  he  comes, 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  52; 

And  yellow-banded  bee  that  hums 

To  every  summer  flower,  is  caught 

Within  the  golden  meshes  wrought 

Of  gossamer  threads  by  Tennyson! 

His  art  the  daintiest  art;  'tis  done 

With  nicest  skill,  till  other  bard 

Finds  scattered  gems  within  his  work-yard 

E'en  worthy  of  his  humbler  muse ; 

And  still,  my  reader,  could  I  choose 

The  bard  I  love  the  best,  'twere  vain 

To  try ;  with  dainty  thought  and  brain 

They  woo  my  taste,  till  like  a  maid 

I  falter  in  my  choice.    They  raid 

My  brain,  while  each  the  lovelier  seems 

Till  other  beauties  throng  my  dreams. 

Dear  Critic,  do  you  love  them  all  ? 

For  even  Moore  can  win  and  thrall 

When  soft  occasion  offers,  though 

His  flowers  do  not  so  perfect  blow 

As  his  who  wears  the  anadem 

Of  all  the  wide  world's  love.    A  gem 

Is  more  a  gem  beneath  his  touch ; 

Yet  all  his  beauties  are  of  such 

A  nature,  that  the  reader's  art 

Must  spring  in  beauty  from  the  heart, 

And  be  perfected,  else  the  line 

Has  lost  its  beauty  half.    Divine, 

With  holy  heart,  my  Cambridge  bard 

Comes  in  the  train,  with  children  starred 

Soft  clinging  round  his  presence.    I 

Can  find  no  grot  beneath  the  sky 

So  beautiful  as  his  great  love ! 

More  tender  than  the  cooing  dove, 

As  perfect  as  the  stars  above, 

He  lived  within  his  native  land ; 

The  children  took  him  by  the  hand, 

But  death  knew  not  their  tender  hearts, 

And  slowly,  sadly  there  departs 

The  pure  sweet  Bard  of  Cambridge !    Time, 

Deal  gently  with  his  hallowed  rhyme, 

For  none  there  be  to  take  his  place. 

I  turn  in  vain.    A  half  hid  face 

Seems  pushing  through  the  mists.    But  doubt, 

Away !    The  face  is  gone.    Far  out 

To  sea  a  tiny  skiff  is  sailing, 

And  baby  zephyrs  are  assailing 

Its  mast,  and,  too,  the  bellied  sails ; 

An  Argosy  the  poet  hails, 


528  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

With  iiew-born  Bard?    Ah,  no,  and  never! 
He  watches  ever  and  forever. 
The  face  has  gone,  the  gilded  ship ; 
A  tremulous  question  on  the  lip : 
x      *'O  eastern  skies,  bring  happy  day, 
And  with  it  bring  the  flowery  May, 
Or  any  lovely  month  to  be 
That  holds  my  lovelier  bard  of  beauty, 
High  destined  here  to  wear  the  crown 
Of  heaven's  immortality!"    Down 
Beside  the  hay-field  in  her  bloom 
She  stands.    The  rugged  hilltops  loom 
Against  the  sky.    The  Quaker  bard 
Is  part  of  Nature.    In  the  yard 
Beside  the  country  home  you  see 
The  weeds  and  wildflowers  growing  free 
In  freedom's  wildest  will.    The  maid 
Is  sweet  Maud  Muller.    He  has  'rayed 
Her  form  with  beauty  rare.    His  verse 
Is  quiet,  natural.    Birds  rehearse 
His  woodland  songs.    The  Barefoot  Boy 
Has  piped  his  lay.    Without  alloy, 
He  singe th  from  the  heart.    Sweet  bird ! 
Beside  the  Birchbrook,  have  ye  heard 
His  wildwood  carols  ?    Yet  have  I ; 
Beneath  his  willows  will  I  lie ; 
Beside  the  brookside  list  his  song, 
Never  a  singer  would  I  wrong, 
I  have  my  choice.    I  would  not  harm 
My  friend.    There's  many  a  hidden  charm 
In  Nature ;  so  in  many  a  thing ; 
The  skylark  in  the  heavens  may  sing ; 
The  nightingale  may  woo  the  night ; 
Little  wee  brown-bird  in  your  flight 
To-morrow  shall  I  hear  no  note 
In  wild  sad  beauty  from  your  throat 
Unworthy  of  a  Patti's  ear  ? 
There's  beauty  in  the  falling  tear 
Upon  the  face  of  poverty.    Look ! 
Upon  his  harp  the  rustic  brook 
Has  played  a  lullaby.    If  sad, 
His  little  song  will  make  you  glad. 
The  wind  will  make  a  mournful  tune 
Where  merry  songsters  sing  to  June. 
Go  fetch  the  book  for  every  mood ; 
The  birds  are  various  in  the  wood ; 
And  so  I  find  in  everything 
Something  that  has  the  power  to  bring 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  520 

A  little  joy.    Dear  Holmes !  the  gray 
Is  in  your  hair ;  and  yet  thy  lay 
Is  still  as  sweet.    The  comic  vein 
Yet  breaks  like  sunshine  on  the  brain 
Of  him  who  reads.    Thy  book  of  gold 
And  bottle  green,  with  leaf  enrolled 
Of  festooned  vines  and  creeping  lines 
Of  dull  rich  gold,  in  beauty  shines 
Beside  my  Whittier,  and  the  bard, 
Who  now  within  the  great  churchyard 
"Is  one  with  Nature."    On  thy  harp 
The  little  satires  keen  and  sharp, 
Do  tease  the  mind  to  quickest  thought, 
Till  dainty  laughters  half  enwrought 
With  subtile  wit,  do  turn  the  face 
To  some  weird  look  or  wild  grimace, 
Until  "some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel's  as  others  see  us!" 
And  yet  my  viands  relish  better 
Because  to  Holmes  I  am  the  debtor 
For  many  a  hearty  laugh.    So  few 
Has  Nature  given  'neath  the  blue 
Of  singers  of  divinest  song, 
That  hoary  death  does  do  a  wrong 
In  taking  one  away.    The  past 
Looms  up,  some  bard  has  sung  his  last, 
And  flowery  muses  by  his  hearse, 
(That  he  may  never  more  rehearse 
His  dainty  runes,)  have  shed  the  tear 
That  welleth  from  the  heart.    The  year 
Is  ripe  with  song  and  budded  thing, 
With  many  a  bird  on  newr-fledged  wing, 
And  yet  the  poet  dies.    The  land 
Is  lich  with  golden  grain ;  a  hand 
From  out  the  light  is  seen ;  is't  Death? 
His  great  heart  dieth,  and  his  breath 
Pipes  nevermore  the  Runic  lay ; 
Return  the  seasons ;  and  the  May, 
The  rosy  June,  and  days  of  beauty, 
And  yet,  O  Death !  it  was  thy  duty 
To  take  him  to  the  heavenly  choir, 
His  harp  is  still,  but  there  the  lyre 
Amid  the  summer  stars  is  pealing, 
"Like  melodies  unheard."    Soft  stealing, 
Now  come  the  echoes  far  and  near 
As  viols  in  the  heavenly  sphere 
Were  playing.    Here  on  earth  was  heaven 
As  sweet  as  "Seven  times  one  is  seven," 


530  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

When  they  were  here.    But  now  no  more 

Their  viol  plays ;  upon  the  shore, 

Sanctified  by  heaven's  divinest  love, 

They  beckon ;  unseen  stars  above 

Are  hid  in  light  as  they  are  hid, 

But  yet  by  faith  we  know  amid 

The  heavens  they  stand  like  stars  more  felt 

Than  seen.    Far  into  mist  they  melt, 

And  like  a  dying  song  that  fell 

From  muses  by  the  Ionian  well, 

The  echoed  memory  all  remains. 

Amid  my  books  the  great  Montaignes 

Stand  potent  guards.    For  side  by  side 

They  have  the  right  to  stand,  allied, 

They  move  in  different  walks,  but  yet, 

Can  reader  read  and  still  forget 

The  Taines  and  Lambs?  I  love,  and  hold 

Them  just  as  dear.    Upon  the  wold, 

With  diamond  dew,  like  bards  they  see 

All  Nature's  dear  divinest  beauty. 

Library  of  Knowledge  on  my  shelf, 

In  storied  page  the  garnered  pelf 

Of  ages  do  you  hold ;  all  lands 

Are  at  my  feet ;  life's  golden  sands 

Have  run  with  greatest  worth  for  thee ; 

Thou  bringst  me  gems  from  o'er  the  sea ; 

Of  foreign  lands  you  have  to  say ; 

A  Pitt  was  great  in  such  a  day ; 

"  Ye  men  of  Athens  !"  how  sublime 

Their  oratory  fell !  The  rhyme 

That  came  so  soft  in  other  years 

Is  in  thy  page.    Forgotten  tears 

Seem  fresh  thro'  all  their  hoary  years. 

I  tread  with  you  the  vales  of  Greece ; 

The  classic  lands  are  mine !    Release 

Me,  Work !  that  I  may  go,  and  be 

In  classic  climes  beyond  the  sea, 

By  blue-waved  Danube,  on  whose  wave 

The  poet-skiffs  were  wont  to  lave 

Her  ballad  waters.    But,  my  climes 

Of  song  and  story,  in  my  rhymes 

Alone  I  know  thee !  Did  I  go, 

O  ruined  lands  across  the  sea ! 
Would  soft  for  me  "the  fair  winds  blow," 

And  land  me  on  thy  shores  of  beauty  ? 
You  take  me  where  the  Avon  flows ; 
I  wander  there,  and  no  one  knows ; 
Thy  bard,  O  Stream !  is  dear  to  me ; 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  531 

I  cannot  go,  but  I  can  see 

With  Beauty's  eye  what  otherwise 

Were  dull.    Beneath  the  bended  skies 

A  bard  may  wander  all  alone 

In  soft  imagination.    Tone, 

And  echo,  lapping  wave  shall  sound 

From  out  the  ages ;  and  around 

Shall  many  a  beauty  lie,  to  him 

Who  sees  the  past  no  landscape  dim, 

But  bright  as  dappled  dawn.    I  go, 

The  fairies  of  the  mind  may  row, 

And  lost  to  present  roams  the  mind 

Across  Atlantic's  blue.    The  wind 

Is  soft  as  Love's  first  glance,  and  time 

Seems  turning  back.    Within  my  rhyme 

I  have  forgot  the  poet  dies ; 

Beneath  the  soft  Italian  skies 

Their  graves  are  seen.    The  grasses  grow ; 

The  little  wild-flowers  bloom  and  blow ; 

The  moss  is  on  the  headstone.    Dead! 

'Tis  Dante  !  skies  are  arching  red. 

Within  his  volume  I  have  read, 

And  still  for  me  he  lives.    And  so, 

From  land  to  storied  land  I  go, 

And  death  is  all  around  me.    Blow 

The  baby  breezes  'gainst  my  cheek ; 

O  that  the  Past  might  rise  and  speak  ! 

But,  no  !  My  .book,  to  thee  I  turn ; 

Oh  tell  me,  teach  me,  I  will  learn ; 

Thou  hast  to  me  an  ancient  air, 

You  seem  a  graybeard  of  the  past ; 
You  point  me  to  a  tombstone  where 

A  lovely  bard  was  laid  at  last ! 
Where'er  I  go,  the  tale  of  death 
Is  still  around  me.    Soft  the  breath 
Of  morn  from  sapphire  seas  comes  blowing, 
"I  hear  the  steeds  to  battle  going." 
Enchanted  Book !  how  but  for  thee 
Could  all  the  world  be  mine  ?    The  Dee 
Outbabbles  in  thy  page.    The  Rhone 
Is  whirling  there  in  madder  tone 
Along  its  wildering  way.    The  Tweed 
Laves  Abbotsford.    A  whispering  reed 
Suggests  a  poet  once  was  there, 
But  death  has  weighed  upon  the  air, 
And  yet  in  morning's  glowing  red 
I  cannot  feel  my  bard  is  dead, 
For  memory  makes  them  live  again, 


332  THE  LADY   OF  DARDALE. 

We  see  them  take  the  rusting  pen, 

It  moves  along  the  magic  line, 

I  feel  the  numbers  are  divine. 

Away,  grim  Death !    Upon  the  door 

I  knock,  and  shall  my  Scott  once  more 

Give  hearty  Scottish  welcome  ?    No ! 

The  raptured  mind  has  made  it  so ; 

Alone  the  empty  echoes  greet  us, 

No  loved  form  shall  come  to  meet  us ; 

For  long  since  has  the  wild-flower's  bloom 

Shed  holy  fragrance  o'er  his  tomb. 

But  still  I  cannot  feel  them  dead, 

The  sweet  lives  of  the  past.    They  led 

The  world.    Wilt  wake  me  from  my  dream? 

Ah,  no!    The  bannered  turrets  gleam, 

The  world  has  moved ;  yet,  let  me  be, 

Still  let  me  feel  that  o'er  the  sea 

I  yet  shall  take  my  Byron's  hand, 

Shall  go  to  many  a  classic  land 

With  him,  and  Shelley,  glorious  Keats, 

In  Venice  sail  her  watery  streets, 

In  classic  lands  with  finest  thought, 

Note  every  beauty  gold  enwrought, 

With  carved  stone  and  minaret, 

And  half-nude  maids  within  the  net 

Of  rosy  Cupid.    Pillars  vast, 

With  twining  vine  of  stone,  that  last 

Thro'  all  encroaching  ages.    Yet 

It  cannot  be.    The  sun  has  set 

For  them.    We  know  them  in  their  works* 

And  yet  about  my  books  there  lurks 

Their  presence,  those  that  made  the  page 

That  grows  more  golden  in  old  age. 

My  books  !  'tis  time  has  made  you  dear, 

I  love  you  better  year  by  year, 

For  peace  and  joy  are  born  of  thee, 

The  wide,  wide  world  you  are  to  me, 

You  teach  the  loveliness  of  life 

Upon  the  earth.    You  quell  the  strife 

Within  the  breast.    O  who  would  liva 

Without  thee  ?  for  the  power  to  give 

The  rarest  treasures  rests  with  thee. 

Revered  Lamb !  beyond  the  sea 

Your  wit  is  sparkling  like  old  wine 

From  cobweb  bottles,  half  divine 

In  ancient  beaker,  for  your  wit 

Is  holy  with  the  past,  and  lit 

With  Attic  salt,  so  keen  and  bright, 


AMOXG  MY  BOOKS.  533 

That  I  am  sitting  half  the  night 
With  thee  alone,  and  not  alone, 
For  every  traveled  land  is  known 
To  thee,  and  in  thy  magic  page, 
The  things  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 
Are  gathered  here  in  reverent  love. 
I  rank  thee  with  the  great.    Above 
The  lovely  stars  are  looking  down 
Upon  thy  grave.    The  grasses  brown 
In  summer's  sun.    You  have  no  word. 
Upon  thy  mound  a  little  bird 
Soft  carols  unto  thee.    And  yet 
To  you  the  voice  is  dumb.    Forget, 
Thou  winged  one,  that  he  is  dead, 
And  carol  to  the  skies.    They  shed 
The  tear  when  he  was  gone,  and  now 
The  kind  remembering  friend  will  bow 
Above  his  dust.    And  time  in  vain 
Shall  draw  Oblivion  round  him.    Fain 
Would  I  a  laurel  bring  to  deck 

His  name.    But,  no  !  thou'lt  rest  and  sleep 
Within  the  mould,  and  still  the  world 

Will  find  thee  there,  in  love  will  weep 
That  thou  art  gone  !    But,  faretheewell ! 
Thou  quaint  dear  friend.    With  magic  spell 
Thou  chain'est  down.    I  hold  thy  book, 
And  still  art  fresh  as  running  brook, 
The  wine  of  wit  yet  sparkling  there, 
With  all  its  quaint  and  ancient  air. 
Ages  !  I  love  to  turn  thy  page, 
For  how  more  lovely  in  old  age 
Thy  panorama  seems  !    To  ponder 
The  past  is  sweet,  and  softly  wander 
Along  the  dusty  ways  of  time, 
E'en  sweeter.    Up  the  Alps  we  climb, 
But  dearer  ones  were  there  before  us, 
Less  holy  skies  are  spreading  o'er  us, 
Or  is  it  mind?    The  charmed  name 
Of  many  a  bard  of  hallowed  fame, 
Has  sanctified  the  place.    We  know 
He  once  was  there.    The  breezes  blow, 
But  tell  no  tale!  and  babbling  brooks 
Sing  not  his  memory.    Lov6d  books ! 
You  tell  a  tale  of  sadness.    We 
Never  had  known  them  but  for  thee, 
Our  treasures.    Now,  inspired  bard  ! 
We  bow  before  thee.    Heaven  that  starred, 
And  beautified  thy  mind.    'Twere  vain 


534  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

To  rank  thee.    Lilies  of  the  brain 
Are  painted  with  the  light  of  Heaven, 

And  gilded  gold  is  on  thy  brow, 
My  matchless  Shakespeare  !  By  the  Avon 

Thy  cultured  kindred  wonder  now ; 
They  see  the  beauty  thou  hast  writ. 
The  skies  in  one  vast  glory  lit, 
Are  shining  o'er  thee.    Who  shall  name 
Thy  rival  ?  Thou  wert  born  to  fame 
That  never  man  had  known.    To  you 
The  world  was  plain.    Beneath  the  blue 
You  saw  the  handiwork  of  God ; 
The  little  violet  on  the  sod 
Held  many  a  tale  for  thee.    The  weed 
Grew  not  in  vain.    Upon  the  meed 
No  flower  escaped  thee,  all  the  earth 
Seemed  known  of  thee.    The  reveller's  mirth, 
And  love's  young  dream  were  in  thy  page ; 
And  thou  hast  writ  for  every  age ; 
I  cannot  say  adieu.    To-day 
Thy  dramas  hold  the  world  in  sway 
With  subtle  power.    And  latest  time 
Will  add  more  laurels  to  thy  rhyme. 
And  yet  it  seems  a  poet's  dream, 
With  cultured  people  on  a  stream 
Of  quiet  beauty,  all  things  fair 
Along  the  route,  and  glowing  there 
In  rarest  loveliness.    The  trees 
O'eraching,  with  the  whispering  breeze 
In  soft  ^Eolian  strains,  as  bard 
Of  magic  touch,  'neath  sky-blue  starred, 
Wert  playing  dear  enchanted  strains 
For  all  the  world  to  hear.    The  plains 
Outstretch  on  either  side,  and  hills 
Far  distant  with  their  winding  rills, 
Shed  glory  on  the  vales  below. 
And  here  where  laughing  waters  flow, 
With  tangled  wild-flowers  in  the  scene, 
And  valleys  decked  in  loveliest  green, 
With  rare  profusion  here  and  there, 
And  rarest  odors  in  the  air, 
My  Keats !  I  think  of  thee ;  thy  lyre 
Is  still  untouched,  but  lighted  pyre 
Has  made  thee  greater.    Hoary  time, 
That  taught  the  beauty  of  thy  rhyme, 
Was  coy  with  thee,  and  would  not  crown 
Thy  brow  till  grasses  parched  and  brown, 
And  daisies  rare  were  on  thy  grave, 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  535 

And  then  as  mighty  tidal  wave, 

Thy  fame  swept  on,  until  to-day 

They  twine  for  thee  the  rarest  bay, 

And  crown  you  god  of  song.    The  times 

Have  reached  thy  goal,  and  in  thy  rhymes 

They  see  thy  beauties  rare  at  last, 

And  on  thy  tomb  the  flowers  are  cast 

By  friends  from  every  land.    The  great 

Beside  the  roadways  pause  and  wait, 

While  little  minds  with  easier  flight, 

Never  have  hid  in  robes  of  light 

Their  earthly  forms,  and  so  win  fame ; 

But  like  the  passing  of  a  name, 

It  comes  and  goes,  and  ere  they  die 

Their  laurels  fade,  while  all  the  sky 

Of  evening  looks  with  soft  stars  down 

Upon  the  stars  that  grace  the  crown 

Of  him  who  died  for  Fame.    The  dawn 

Is  come  at  last,  the  Poet's  dawn ; 

But  why,  O  great  unlovely  Death, 

Dost  steal  the  odors,  and  the  breath 

Of  Spring,  and  let  the  great  Bard  die 

Before  his  time  ?    'Neath  daisies  lie 

Before  the  people  of  the  land 

Have  known  to  take  him  by  the  hand 

And  feel  his  greatness  !    Lady  mine, 

To  me  thy  numbers  are  divine, 

The  one  great  Woman  of  the  world 

In  Poesy  !    From  the  hills  upcurled 

The  glories  of  an  eastern  sun, 

And  thou  wert  born  !    The  goal  was  won 

Where  greatest  bard  had  soared.    O  Lady  ! 

Thou  seemst  an  angel  from  Arcady, 

The  one  great  Woman  among  my  books  ! 

O  Robert  Browning  !  in  thy  looks 

A  sadness  lingers.    She  to  thee 

Was  Goddess  of  divinest  Poesy  ! 

And  all  thy  numbers  unto  her 

Were  built  in  grandest  rhythm.    They  stir 

The  subtle  symphonies  of  life. 

And  out  of  chaos  and  wild  strife, 

You  two  have  built  Miltonic  lines. 

In  Casa  Guida,  chiseled  vines 

On  some  old  work  of  Art  remind 

Of  all  the  classic  train  that  wind 

Amid  thy  charmed  verse ;  and  yet, 

My  Sappho !  hast  thou  paid  the  debt 

Of  life,  and  flowerets  fair  to-day 


53G  TEE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

Are  twining  o'er  thee  like  a  bay, 
And  Death  has  not  a  tear  for  thee 
Thou  marvel  Goddess  of  earth's  Beauty ! 

0  Poesy !  why  so  wondrous  fair  ? 
Can  Poet  tell  ?    And  why  the  air 
So  full  of  beauties  when  you  deign 
Within  the  lovely  poet's  brain 

To  reign  in  Loveliness  ?    And  why, 
Beneath  the  overarching  sky, 
In  all  the  seasons,  does  he  find 
Something  to  beautify  the  mind  ? 
With  sweetest  love  I  wooed  thee  long, 
In  morn  and  even  heard  thy  song, 
And  thro'  the  day  in  beauty  spread 
Upon  the  lovely  hills,  I  wed 
My  heart  to  thee ;  and  everywhere, 
Within  the  warm  spring's  balmy  air, 

1  found  thy  traces.    In  the  days 

When  suns  have  seared  the  wold,  thy  lays 

Have  come  to  me.    And  when  the  Fall 

With  ripened  fruit  reigned  over  all, 

Still  there  I  saw  thee.    Winter's  blast, 

(Where  every  flower  had  bloomed  its  last,) 

There,  too,  I  found  and  loved  thee.    Still, 

I  may  not  tell  the  reason.    Fill 

The  heart  with  song,  and  all  the  land, 

Like  loveliest  panorama  grand, 

Seems  all  about,  as  lavish  hand, 

From  out  the  graineries  of  the  world, 

Had  dealt  them  forth.    In  beauty  purled 

A  little  stream,  and  music  soft 

From  out  the  valleys  came  aloft 

As  some  remembered  song  from  out 

The  gray  old  Past.    And  all  about 

Are  landscapes  rare,  and  yet  wilt  tell  me 

What  dear  strange  lot  in  days  befell  me, 

(E'en  now  forgot,)  that  I  should  feel 

A  holy  music  o'er  me  steal 

When  robin-notes  are  in  the  trees, 

JEolian  strains  within  the  breeze, 

Gray  boatmen  sing  on  lonely  seas, 

A  little  streamlet  soft  does  tease 

Its  ragged,  lilied  banks  ?    I  know 

You  love  the  little  flowers  that  blow 

In  lonely  dells ;  but  can  you  think 

It  may  be  yet  the  little  link 

That  joins  your  soul  with  God's  ?    I  see 

The  thought  in  everything ;  the  bee 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  537 

Is  but  the  emblem  of  a  thought 

That  tells  the  way  to  Heaven.    Are  not 

The  veriest  things  around  us 

E'en  full  of  mystery  ?    Yet  surround  us 

With  heaven's  own  divinity, 

And  all  suggested  things  to  be  ? 

They  looked  upon  the  primrose  there, 

To  one  a  floweret  blooming  rare 

That  showed  the  holy  hand  of  God ; 

A  yellow  floweret  on  the  sod, 

And  this  alone  the  other  saw. 

But,  O  sweet  Flower !    The  infinite  law 

Within  your  beauty's  hid  !    O  Book  ! 

And  who  would  win  the  Goal,  and  look, 

No,  never  in  thy  page  ?    'Tis  he 

Who  sees  a  weed,  and  o'er  the  Sea, 

Does  look  to  Heaven.    Wilt  solve,  oh  Pope  ! 

The  mysteries  of  the  earth,  and  Hope 

Draw  down  from  out  the  skies,  that  we 

May  reach  the  Great  White  Throne  to  be 

When  Time  shall  close  his  book,  with  Time 

For  no  man  left  ?    Thy  thoughts  sublime 

Once  swayed  the  world,  and  wilt  to-day 

Unfold  within  thy  half-rhymed  lay 

The  secrets  unrevealed  ?    Thy  lines 

Were  full  of  epigrams.    Old  wines 

In  Homer  cellars  drowse  the  thought, 

In  half-dreamed  spell  where  lines  were  wrought 

By  thee.    And  Dryden,  he  seems  old 

As  some  old  miser's  yellow  gold 

"In  unsunned  heaps."    And  yet  his  song 

Is  not  forgot.    He  struck  at  wrong 

About  the  throne.    The  years  rehearse 

The  grander  beauties  of  his  verse. 

But  times  have  changed.    The  Art 

Is  known  of  daintiest  touch.    The  heart 

Is  won  with  dainty  skill,  and  so 

'Tis  not  the  wild-flower  that  will  blow, 

But  calla  lilies  grown  in  pots, 

Themselves  an  art.    Forget-me-nots, 

'Neath  domSd  roof  of  glass,  may  breathe 

Their  fragrance  on  the  air.    Enwreathe 

The  trained  plant.    So  day  is  god 

Of  every  wild-flower  on  the  sod, 

Of  every  primrose  by  the  brook, 

Of  all  old  Nature's  flowers  that  look 

Like  queens  of  vales  and  valleys  there, 

Sweet  "with  their  rustic  woodland  air." 


538  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  Spenser  with  his  Faerie  Queen, 

Shall  come  away.    From  off  the  green 

His  shepherd  boys  must  hie.    The  times 

Have  put  old  Art  within  our  rhymes, 

Till  hum  the  yellow  banded  bees, 

Till  fly  the  yellow  girdled  bees, 

With  legs  of  dusty  gold.    Great  Bard ! 

The  world  has  loved  thee  and  has  starred ; 

'Twere  all  in  vain  we  did  not  love  thee, 

For  where  the  bard  that  is  above  thee 

With  all  thy  splendors  ?    Faerie  Queen, 

In  grandeur  through  the  cloying  scene, 

We  oft  have  wandered.    Thou  .wert  sweet, 

And  e'en  as  honey  in  the  heat 

Of  flowery  summer  won.    You  cloyed, 

And  yet  we  loved  thee.    Overjoyed, 

We  half  forgot  'twas  not  a  dream, 

That  all  along  a  quiet  stream 

Our  boats  were  sailing.     Yet  art  great, 

And  in  thy  walk  without  a  mate. 

And  Chaucer,  with  thy  quaint  old  meter, 

(Our  latest  muse  may  joy  to  greet  her, 

Her  that  enslaved  all  thy  days.) 

Ah  !  who  shall  turn  and  scorn  thy  lays, 

Thou  Star  of  English  song  ?    Like  Homer 

Now  come  to  us  with  rare  aroma, 

Of  Edens  full  of  flowers,  the  songs 

You  sang.    No  lovely  bard  belongs 

To  any  age  or  land.    The  earth 

Shall  claim  them  all.    Thy  place  of  birth 

Holds  not  the  right  to  own  thee  ever, 

For  all  the  world  shall  claim  forever 

The  bards  of  Genius  !    Scotland,  I 

Shall  own  your  Scott  and  Burns  !    Deny, 

O  Greece  !  and  Rome  !  my  right ! 

Fair  Italy  !  though  in  death  so  white, 

Thy  Dante  I  shall  own  !  and,  too, 

Our  Gosthe  I  shall  love  with  you, 

0  Germany  !  and  Schiller  !    Must 

1  turn  from  any  poet's  dust  ? 

Oh  England !  Shakespeare,  too,  is  mine, 

And  Ireland  !  Goldsmith  with  his  line 

Of  beauty.    Moore  is  thine  alone  ? 

Ah,  no,  the  whole  great  world  shall  own, 

Where'er  his  birth.    For  Homer  dead 

The  Grecian  cities  strove.    He  led 

The  armies  of  the  gods.    To-day 

The  great  wide  earth  has  claimed  his  Lay. 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS. 

The  even  faints.    The  great  stars  shine, 
And  out  the  distance,  far  and  fine, 
A  great  voice  conies.    And,  hush  !    To  lands 
Of  gold  the  mind  has  turned.    With  hands 
In  beauty  clasped,  kneels  a  maid ; 
She  seems  the  Queen  of  Song.    Arrayed 
In  garments  white,  with  lilies  wreathed, 
She  seems  of  Heaven,  and  has  not  breathed. 
My  Muse  !    The  great  voice  seems  to  sound, 
'Tis  only  thought,  and  all  around 
Are  books  from  every  land  !    Adieu, 
My  Iov6d  friends  !  for  softly  through 
Your  pages  Heaven  looks  down,  and  all 
The  world  is  glad.    Against  the  wall 
You  stand  alone,  and  there  is  peace, 
To  me  e'en  lovelier  far  than  Greece. 
Can  Heaven  be  Heaven  without  our  Books  ? 
A  voice  outbabbling  like  the  brooks: 
"O  Bard  !  in  Heaven  are  all  things  fair, 
You  may  not  take  your  treasures  there, 
But  Heaven  will  crown  the  Poet  rare 
Forever  and  forever !" 


539 


540 


THE  LADY  OF  DA1WALE. 


THE  OLD  CANNON. 

Thy  work  is  o'er  at  last,  proud  Gun  ! 
Thy  last  red  battle  has  been  won, 
And  rusting  'mong  the  flowers  you  lie, 

The  home  of  birds  and  vines  ; 
Yet  you  that  made  the  bravest  die, 

That  broke  the  hostile  lines. 

Thy  last  loud  thunder  has  been  heard, 
And  in  thy  mouth  the  mother-bird 
Has  dared  te  build  her  fragile  nest, 

While  o'er  thee  flowerets  climb, 
With  not  a  word  by  them  confest, 

Nor  hint  of  bloodier  time. 


You  saw  the  ranks  drawn  up  before  ; 
A  flash,  and  with  a  horrid,  roar 
You  laid  a  hundred  heroes  low  ; 


THE  OLD   CANNON.  541 

But  now  the  vines  are  fair, 
And  o'er  you  wild-flowers  bloom  and  blow 
And  birds  have  caroled  there. 

You  blazed  your  thunders  long  and  loud ; 
Like  sickled  grain  the  soldiers  bowed 
Before  your  wild  and  angry  shower ; 

But  yet  the  happy  birds, 
Know  not  the  time,  that  fatal  hour, 

Of  blood  and  angry  words. 

You  boomed  and  bayed  beneath  the  skies 
We  heard  the  sad  commingled  cries, 
And  saw  the  valorous  fight  and  fall, 

And  bite  the  bloody  dust ; 
But  now,  old  gun,  thy  day  is  done, 

You're  covered  o'er  with  rust ! 

'Twas  then  you  shone  unsullied,  bright, 
'Twas  then  the  monster  of  the  fight, 
You  held  the  sad  embattled  field, 

And  dared  the  treacherous  foe, 
While  o'er  the  muskets  loudly  pealed 

Your  thundering  notes  of  woe. 

But  little  birds  have  dared  you  now, 
And  little  flowerets  softly  bow 
Beside  thy  sad  half-hidden  form, 

And  in  thy  mouth  the  bird, 
E'en  careless  of  your  volleyed  storm, 

Has  made  his  music  heard. 

And  there  inglorious  shall  you  lie, 
And  nevermore  the  Southern  sky 
Shall  'gan  thy  blazing  volleys  light ; 

For  singing  birds  and  vines, 
Have  won  you  in  a  bloodless  fight, 

With  still  unbroken  lines. 

So  faretheewell,  old  army  Gun ! 
For  many  a  deed  by  you  was  done 
That  gave  you  honor  and  renown ; 

More  honored  now  you  rest, 
Tho'  many  a  veteran  bronzed  and  brown 

Has  seen  you  at  your  best. 


542  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Rest,  rest  in  peace,  and  later  time 
Will  place  you  in  the  poet's  rhyme, 
Now  e'en  more  hallowed  where  you  lie ; 

For  timid  bird  may  dare, 
Beneath  the  great  unhostile  sky, 

To  build  her  nest-home  there ! 


VENUS. 

The  Goddess  fair,  of  Love  and  Beauty, 
Was  lovely  Yenus.    From  the  sea, 
Or  frothy  foam  that  capped  it,  sprang 
The  goddess.    But  the  stars  that  sang 
In  sisterhood  together,  said : 
"Of  Jupiter  to  Dione  wed, 
From  them  she  had  her  lovely  being ;" 
And  others  vain,  and  not  agreeing, 
As  soothly  said :  "From  crested  foam 

Upon  the  great  blue  sea  she  came ; 
Among  the  mermaids  was  her  home, 

And  Yenus  was  her  natal  name, 
And  so  forever.    Gentle  zephyr, 
(As  sweet  in  name  as  fair  Gleneffer,) 
Did  waft  her  o'er  the  waves  to  Isle 
Of  Cyprus.    There  in  queenliest  style 
Did  all  the  lovely  Seasons  meet  her, 
Where  did  both  god  and  goddess  greet  her 
With  heaven's  divinest  love.    Attired 

They  led  her  to  th'  assembled  gods ; 
And  many  that  in  love  aspired 

To  fairy  Yenus'  heart.    Their  rods 
Were  flowered  with  sweet  Anemones 
That  she  herself  had  made.    But,  trees 
And  flowers,  and  birds  of  Paradise, 
From  old  Ceylon  your  rarest  spice, 
From  loved  Arcady  grape  and  vine, 
From  old  Tokay  your  rarest  wine, 
They  loved  in  vain.    Her  girdle  Cestus ; 
"Twere  this,'  they  said,  'had  blest  us 
With  unrequited  love !'    But  she, 
(A  maid  from  out  the  foaming  sea,) 
Unconscious  fondled  with  her  birds. 

And  her  sweet  sparrows,  swans  and  doves, 
Soft  to  them  saying  baby  words, 

And  artless  telling  of  her  loves ; 


VENUS.  543 

Of  merry  Bacchus,  Mercury  fair,  t 

For  these  that  boasted  of  her  love ; 
So,  after  all,  'twas  not  so  rare 

To  woo  this  goddess  from  above, 
And  dally  with  her  heart.    The  rose, 

Her  sacred  plant,  and  twining  myrtle. 
And  what  cared  she  for  lovers'  woes  ? 

She  grew  more  tender  than  the  turtle, 
But  still  they  loved  in  vain,    She  wed, 
At  last,  lame  Vulcan.    But  the  red, 
And  setting  sun,  in  beauty  shone 
Upon  her,  faithless !    Then  alone 
Did  Vulcan  nevermore  her  love 
Possess.    And  lovers  from  above 
That  wooed  her,  and,  from  baser  earth, 
They  sought  my  Aphrodite.    Mirth 
And  revelry  ruled  the  hour,  and  Love, 
The  rosy  Cupid.    From  above 
Came  gods,  came  Bacchus,  and  sick  Mars, 
E'en  sick  for  love  of  Venus.    Stars 
On  starry  crowns  were  glittering.    Smit, 
At  last,  with  charmed  Anchises,  it 
No  wonder  grew  the  Trojan  boy 
Was  all  the  heavens  to  her,  and  joy 
Untold  was  in  her  heart,    Among 
The  sheepcotes  where  the  shepherds  sung, 
She  joined  him  on  Mount  Ida,  and 
The  great  ^Eneas  graced  the  land. 
But  Aphrodite  found  offense 
With  Myrrah,  and  her  wrath  intense, 
Made  all  her  loveliness  unlovely ; 
But  like  the  foaming  of  the  sea 
The  ire  of  great  King  Cinyras, 
When  came  in  darker  days  to  pass 
That  his  own  daughter  loved  him,  and 
Then  sword-blade  bare  in  clenched  hand 
He  wild  pursued  her.    But  the  gods 
Into  a  myrrh-tree  changed  her.    Sods 
With  sweet  Anemones  were  round 
About  her.    And  the  flowery  ground 
Gave  moisture  rich.    And  last  there  came 
A  babe.    Adonis  was  his  name ; 
And  then  to  Proserpine  she  gave  him, 
Did  lovely  Venus,    None  could  save  him, 
And  the  dark  Queen  below  his  beauty 
Worshiped.    Till  last  it  grew  a  duty, 
(Devolving  on  god  Jupiter,) 
To  bold  decide.    And  so  from  her, 


544  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

(Queen  Proserpine,)  he  took  away 
The  loved  Adonis.    'Yet,'  they  say, 
'A  year  apiece  did  each  one  own  him, 
Till  all  the  queens  might  last  bemoan  him, 
For  wildest  boar  did  gore  him  there, 
Then  Venus  to  the  floweret  fair, 
Did  turn  him  at  his  death,  till  he 
Is  known  as  sweet  Anemone !'  " 


ATALANTA. 


The  fairy  maiden,  Atalanta,  by 

The  oracle  had  been  warned  not  to  wed, 

As  marriage  would  be  fatal  to  her.    But, 

Oh  Cupids  fair,  and  frailer  human  hearts, 

The  suitors  came  in  many  guises  fair, 

And  tried  the  strength  of  Atalanta.    She 

Sweet  maid,  was  sadly  plexed,  and  hardly  knew 

The  route  to  take.    "And  did  I  wed,"  she  said, 

"The  fates  are  'gainst  me.    Yet  a  maid,  I  wis, 

Should  be  her  own  best  judge.    How  oft  my  sex 

Have  bowed  to  Love !    And  I  less  strong  ?    My  mother 

'O  Atalanta!  Atalanta!  why, 

You  must  not  marry !'    Yet  my  dear  old  mother 

Was  foolish  once,  and  I  shall  follow  blood, 

And  let  the  fates  decree."    So  suitors  came, 

And  wooed  the  lovely  maid.    As  various  as 

The  rainbow's  tints,  or  hue  in  flowers  by  roadside, 

And  many  a  lakeside  fair,  her  suitors  came, 

Till  puzzled  and  perplexed,  she  did  propose 

A  lover's  race,  with  her  as  chiefest  prize, 

And  he  that  could  surpass  her  fleetness  on 

The  mellowing  turf  should  own  her  hand,  and  lead 

Her  lovingly  from  the  altar ;  those  that  lost 

Should  soon  be  put  to  death.    As  Atalanta 

Unrivaled  reigned  the  Goddess  fair  of  speed, 

They  took  great  risks  to  win  her  hand.    But  Love ! 

I  saw  him  face  the  cannon's  mouth ;  beside 

The  sea  I  saw  him  dare  the  wave  of  Neptune ; 

And  thro'  the  flames  I  saw  him  dash ;  the  sword 

He  dared  on  Flodden  field;  he  faced  the  pistol 

Glittering  in  his  rival's  hand ;  and  Death 

From  bottomless  pits  he  dared.    So  not  so  strange 

They  flocked  to  test  their  skill  and  win  or  lose 


AT AL  ANT  A.  545 

The  Goddess  Atalanta.    Even  now 

Her  history  told  of  death  to  many  a  youth 

E'en  rash  to  try  his  speed,  till  last,  a  son 

Of  Neptune  bold,  Hippomenes  by  name, 

And  full  of  venturous  fire,  did  challenge  her. 

The  goddess  fair  had  warned  him  all  in  vain. 

He  did  persist,  and  Atalanta  gave 

Consent  to  race  with  him.    Hippomenes 

Invoked  the  aid  of  Venus,  and  the  goddess 

Gave  unto  him  three  golden  apples.    She, 

Fair  Atalanta,  part  incautious  was, 

And  brave  Hippomenes — but  see !    The  race ! 

It  has  commenced.    Fair  Atalanta,  now ! 

Hippomenes,  away !    Another  Venus 

She  sped ;  Adonis  he.    But  look!    'Twas  Love 

That  whelmed  my  Shelley,  Milton  led  to  lesser 

Maid,  and  old  Homer,  doubt  me  not,  to  realms 

<Jf  coyest  maid,  and,  too,  perchance,  of  Troy, 

Another  Helen  fair.    So  Atalanta, 

Hippomenes  will  fool  thee  sore,  for  love 

Has  winged  his  brain ;  and  see !    The  bended  grass 

Upsprings  beneath  their  winged  feet,  their  garments 

Flying  in  air.    Atalanta  flashed  ahead, 

A  ray  of  sunshine,  when  Hippomenes 

A  golden  apple  hurled  across  her  path, 

And  she,  vain  maid,  in  love  with  yellow  gold, 

Did  turn  aside  to  pick  it  up,  and  st ! 

The  youth  flew  past  her  like  a  silver  arrow ; 

But  soon  she  led  him  'gan.    Hippomenes 

Another  apple  red  as  gold  threw  forth, 

And  then  he  passed-her.    Eden's  reddest  rose 

Not  redder  than  fair  Atalanta's  cheek 

When  flushed  Hippomenes  outstripped  her.    Apples 

Of  gold  that  won  the  race,  as  often  since ; 

But  poor  Hippomenes  forgot  the  goddess, 

Venus,  and  she  to  pay  for  his  neglect 

In  sacrificing  naught  to  her,  inspired 

Him  and  his  lovely  bride  with  wild  desire 

As  by  the  cave  of  Cybele  they  passed 

In  linked  love,  who  turned  them  into  lions 

Because  they  did  profane  it.    So  do  Love 

And  high  Ambition  often  lay  the  bravest 

Low.    And  a-many  a  man  has  fallen  at  last 

Because  he  soared  too  high.    Hippomenes 

Thus,  and  the  apple-hampered  Atalanta. 


PALLAS  ATHENA. 


Minerva  was  the  goddess  fair  of  wisdom, 
And  o'er  the  arts  did  wise  preside,  and  too, 
She  was  the  patroness  of  warfare  bold, 
With  scientific  skill  to  cope  with  foes 
Among  the  hostile  gods  to  bitter  death, 
The  offspring  great  of  Jupiter  who  once 
Was  bold  concealed  within  the  gray  old  cave 
In  Crete,  of  loved  Mount  Ida;  mother  none 
She  had,  for  ran  the  legend  of  old  Zeus 
In  manner  thus :  "  Now  Jupiter  of  heaven 
First,  great  among  his  brothers  Neptune  dread, 
And  Pluto  dreaded  more,  the  king  of  gods 
And  men,  with  ^Egis,  by  old  Vulcan  wrought, 
As  mighty  shield  with  storm  and  tempest  great, 
When  shaken  by  his  mighty  hand.    And  Metis, 
Sweet  Prudence  fair,  did  Zeus  bold  espouse, 
As  daughter  of  great  Oceanus,  but, 
In  godly  wrath  he  bold  devoured  her,  ere 
The  birth  of  comelier  god  or  goddess  fair ; 
For  Heaven  high  and  lower  Earth  had  told 
Of  one,  the  infant  yet  unborn,  who  would 
In  power  and  wisdom  equal  Zeus  great, 
And  worse,  for  in  her  next  born  child,  would  Metis 
Rival  for  aye  the  proud  old  god,  dethrone 
Him  then  from  highest  kingdom,  and  her  son, 
Her  latest  born,  make  king  of  gods  and  men ; 
And  thus  his  violence.    But  afterwards, 
He  felt  his  head  afflicted  sore,  and  Vulcan 
Coming  at  bidding  of  hurt  Jupiter, 
Did  cleave  his  brain  with  flashing  axe,  and  there 
Before  the  fire-god  grim,  sprang  forth  Minerva 
Completely  armed.    And  like  Diana  fair, 
And  Vesta,  pure  as  silver  stars,  her  virtue 
Was  last  respected  by  the  gods  of  earth, 
And  queens  of  highest  heaven ;  but  fire-god  Vulcan, 
A-like  another  Collatine  Lucrece 
Would  make  of  purest  Pallas.    Dear  he  paid 
For  forceful  act,  and  fell  in  disrespect 
Among  the  shocked  gods.    Her  favorite 
546 


PALLAS  ATHENA.  "»47 

Bird,  (solemn  and  contemplative,)  the  owl, 

With  rounded  eye  and  old  historic  stare, 

As  he  would  reach  the  soul,  and  pierce  the  gloom 

That  spans  across  unending  space.    The  olive, 

That  she  herself  had  caused  to  shoot  in  beauty 

From  out  the  bounteous  earth,  was  sacred  to  her. 

From  time  to  grayer  time  they  showed  her  armed, 

This  goddess  brave,  e'en  pure  as  vestal  flame, 

And  on  her  breastplate  bright  or  mooned  shield, 

The  monstrous  Gorgon's  head  glared  out  with  horrid 

And  gleaming  eyes,  a  gift  from  Perseus, 

High  heaven's  young  hero.    Now  Minerva  pure, 

Unsullied  still,  was  aider  bold  of  heroes 

To  eminent  heights  arisen,  and  did  go, 

In  armed  strength,  with  Perseus,  and  bold, 

And  yet  undaunted  Hercules,  upon 

Their  great  adventures.    And  as  wise  protector 

And  famed  adviser  of  the  brave  Ulysses, 

She  traveled  under  the  assumed  name 

Of  Mentor  with  Telemachus  the  son 

Of  Mentor  brave,  who  searched  for  his  father, 

And,  too,  with  pure  Minerva's  aid  did  Argus 

For  Jason  build  the  Argo,  and  Epeus 

The  wooden  horse  that  took  old  Troy  divine. 

Excelling,  too,  in  soft  accomplishments 

Of  all  the  fair  sex,  did  she  nice  embroider 

Her  woven  robe  that  she  herself  had  wrought, 

And  that  of  Juno  queen  of  heaven  of  heavens ; 

And  all  her  favorites  did  she  wise  instruct 

In  all  her  lovely  art.    But  fair  Arachne, 

Her  once  true  friend,  the  Maeonian  maid,  whom  she 

Had  taught,  denied  her  obligations,  and, 

Ungrateful,  did  at  once  a  challenge  make 

To  Pallas  for  a  trial  of  her  skill ; 

But  still  in  vain  that  wise  Minerva  plead 

To  have  her  then  relinquish  project  bold, 

She  last  accepted  wroth  Arachne's  challenge, 

And  each  would  weave  a  web  adorned  fair 

With  actions  of  the  crowned  gods.    Minerva's 

Within  its  centure  gorgeous  as  Idalian 

Cloudlets,  displayed  her  famed  contest  once 

With  three-pronged  Neptune  for  the  naming  then 

Of  city  now  renowned  Cecrops ;  corners 

Four,  these  in  beauty  deftly  wrought  by  hand 

Of  nicest  skill,  the  transformations  held 

Of  those  who  dared  once  the  high  Celestials ; 

And  olive-leaves  the  border  formed  with  woven 

Beauties  soft  vying  with  the  starry  dome, 


548  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Or  gaudy  rainbow  spanning  o'er  the  heavens, 

Where  late  the  angry  storm  had  raged  wild. 

Arachne's  web,  a  thing  divine,  and  crowned 

With  love,  a  miracle  of  beauty  seemed, 

With  its  love-transformations  of  the  gods, 

As  dainty  as  a  poet's  dream  in  valleys 

Of  hanging  fruits  Hesperian  fair.    The  borders 

Were  woven  of  flowers  and  ivy  twining  like 

A  fairy's  walk  in  vales  of  gaudy  gold, 

Or  scenes  where  glittering  starlights  played  fair. 

And  Pallas  wroth  at  Beauty's  riveless  reign 

In  sweet  Mseonian  maiden's  broidered  web, 

Minerva  struck  her  with  her  dainty  shuttle, 

And  poor  Arachne  hung  herself,  and  Pallas, 

(The  fair  Mseonian  maid,)  to  spinning  spider 

Did  turn  her ;  so  Arachue  is  she  known 

To  all  the  world  of  beauty,  heaven  high, 

And  homes  of  throned  gods,  the  sad,  sad  chance 

That  came  of  rivals  high  among  the  queens 

Of  heaven  and  earth  that  wrested  for  a  Crown !" 


CUPID. 

Cupid,  the  god  of  love,  was  son  of  Yenus, 

The  queen  of  love  and  beauty,  but  was  blind 

As  some  fair  shepherd-lad  in  chiseled  stone 

Upon  a  great  man's  lawn.    Her  soft  companion, 

And  Venus  had  no  fears.    With  bow  and  arrows 

He  shot  the  darts  of  sweet  desire,  and  into 

A-many  a  god  and  man,  and  goddess  fair. 

The  boy  was  plump  and  rosy-cheeked,  with  hair 

More  light  than  plucked  down,  across  his  shoulders 

Softly  as  gossamers  hung.    Tho'  god  of  love 

He  too  did  fall  in  love.    And  lovely  Psyche 

Did  sore  perplex  his  heart,  until  a  zephyr 

Was  sent  by  him  to  lead  her  to  a  palace 

Splendid  gilt,  and  in  all  environments 

More  fair  than  first  fair  Eden  unto  Adam 

And  Eve,  his  lovely  and  unclothed  bride ; 

And  there  he  soon  became  her  husband.    She 

His  form  had  never  seen ;  but  happiness 

A  transient  comes  and  goes,  for  all  her  sisters 

Grew  jealous  soon  of  Psyche's  joy,  and  told  her,— 

Ah,  cruel  tales !    "Your  Cupid  is  a  monster ! 

His  Latin  name  ?  O  fie !  and  what  in  Greek  ? 


HTMEN^EVS.  5*9 

Yes,  Eros.    And  he  cannot  see!    Your  beauty 

That  won  him?    And  we  guess  the  moon  is  bright, 

That  all  the  stars  are  drops  of  gold,  and  he, 

The  great  round  sun,  a  silvery  shield,  and  comets 

But  winged  balls  of  fire,  and  meteors  blazing 

Lightnings  wild  speeding  thro'  the  skies,  and  all 

Ye  winged  winds  but  monster  birds.    Fair  Psyche, 

And  sister  ours,  you  too  art  blind.    This  Cupid, 

(Your  Eros  fair?)  has  fooled  thee,  lovely  Psyche! 

Take  up  your  lamp  and  view  him  while  he  sleeps, 

For  then  has  art  no  sway."    The  son  of  Venus 

Lay  silent  in  his  dreams.    The  sky  was  vailed, 

And  Morpheus  reigned.    While  dark  Latona  shrouded 

All.    Psyche  stole  to  where  the  god  of  love 

Like  sleeping  lilies  lay,  and  with  a  lamp 

That  threw  a  faded  light,  she  fixed  her  gaze, 

Her  lovely  eyes,  upon  his  lovelier  form, 

But  lo !  a  drop  of  oil  did  fall  upon  him, 

And  with  a  start  he  sudden  woke,  and  flew 

Away  like  spangled  butterfly  or  bird 

In  gaudy  plumage  dressed.    And  Psyche, 

Poor  Psyche,  was  alone !    And  then  did  Venus 

Sore  persecute  her  there,  with  prisoned  Cupid 

Pining  away  in  hidden  cell.    But  soon 

He  made  escape,  the  rosy-winged  god, 

And  hied  with  lover's  speed  to  Psyche's  shrine, 

Who,  lovely  maid,  with  starry  eyes,  in  heaven 

Again,  was  reveling  with  her  winged  Eros. 

Jupiter,  did  Cupid  interest  in  Psyche, 

And  such  his  favor  that  the  angry  Venus 

Forgot  her  late  resentment,  and  the  marriage 

Of  Cupid  fair  and  fairer  Psyche  then 

Was  celebrated  in  the  glittering  palace 

Of  Jupiter,  god  of  heaven  fair,  and  Pleasure 

Was  born  to  all  the  world,  with  Cupid  still 

The  rosy  lord  of  love  to  all  mankind, 

With  yet  the  sightless  eyes  the  lovely  Psyche 

Knew,  blind,  but  lovely  in  their  lovelier  blindness. 


HYMEN^US. 

And  what  fair  poet,  crowned  with  beauty, 
Could  e'er  resist  the  Grecian  gods 
Of  Greece,  or  Roman  gods  of  Rome  ? 
'Twere  e'en  the  muse's  rarest  duty 


650  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

To  revel  thus ;  so  pure,  so  chaste, 

Of  heaven  born.    Their  times  are  traced 

In  beauty's  way,  and  lead  the  mind 

Where  arm  in  arm  are  maidens  twined 

In  heaven  and  earthly  love.    O  Keats ! 

Thou  Poet  of  the  gods,  there  meets 

A  maid  a  lover  fair,  and  you, 

With  flowery  chain  begemmed  with  dew, 

Hast  joined  their  holy  hearts.    Their  love, 

As  pure  as  starlights  from  above, 

Has  won  your  poet  heart  and  verse, 

(Ere  thou,  unlovely  Death !  the  hearse 

Did  stop  beside  his  door,)  e'en  wet 

With  gemmed  dew  that  we  forget, 

Ah,  never,  hast  thou  placed  them  fair, 

Till  bard  and  goddess  folded  there, 

Do  make  a  picture  Yinci  pure ; 

And  thou  and  they  in  love  allure 

A  world  of  loveliness.    To  thee 

Were  beauty  rare  on  emerald  sea, 

Where  Neptune  with  his  train  of  gods, 

Did  sway  the  mythologic  world, 

Of  queens  and  gods  with  flowery  rods 

Of  heaven  and  earth  combined.    Upcurled 

The  great  blue  wave,  and  Arethusa 

In  snowy  whiteness,  fled  beneath 

The  crested  waters ;  on  the  banks 

You  stood  and  wot  not  then  of  Death ; 

And  so  when  god  or  goddess  fair 

Are  seen,  I  think  my  poet  there, 

E'en  now  a  drowned  god  among 

The  gods.    And  so  within  are  rung 

A  golden  chime  of  bells  as  maid 

Of  more  than  earthly  loveliness 

Wert  there  in  wedding  garments  'rayed, 

As  magic  hand  had  wrought  the  dress 

From  gossamer  threads  of  Faery,  she, 

With  eyes  more  blue  than  sapphire  sea, 

With  lilies  in  her  cheeks,  and  too, 

The  dimpled  caves,  beneath  the  blue 

The  happy  bride-elect,  with  Hymen 

The  gcd  of  marriage,  Venus  fair 

His  lovely  mother,  with  red  Bacchus 

To  him  a  father.    Hymen  bare 

The  torch  of  marriage,  crowned  with  roses, 

Or  marjoram,  a  flame-like  veil. 

Upon  his  head  in  color  rare, 

Till  god  and  goddess  heavenly  fair, 


BABY  WILLIE.  651 

Did  end  the  lovers'  lengthened  tale 
In  rosy  bands  of  marriage.    Hymen 
With  nuptial  torch  a  light  threw  on 
'Their  winding  way ;  till,  lovely  dawn, 
And  diamond  stars  across  the  sky, 
And  great  round  moon  with  silvery  eye, 
Or  Phoebus,  god  of  heaven's  wide  arch, 
You  hear  the  lovely  wedding  march, 
And  know  that  they  are  more  than  thee, 
With  all  thy  rare  and  heavenly  beauty, 
For  veiled  Hymemeus  reigns  at  last, 
With  god  and  goddess  joined  fast 
With  links  that  Vulcan  Cupid  made 
From  out  two  loves  grown  one  in  thought, 
The  lover  god  and  goddess  maid, 
Both  tangled  in  a  wedding  knot. 


BABY  WILLIE. 

Little  Willie  they  have  ta'en  him, 
They  have  ta'en  him  far  away, 

And  the  hushed  still  house  was  vacant 
In  the  even  where  he  lay. 

But  we  see  him  like  an  angel 

Far  across  the  starry  sky, 
Yet  we  little  dreamed  our  darling 

Was  so  soon,  so  soon  to  die. 

E'en  to-day  the  tearful  faces, 
And  the  faltering  steps  that  fell 

And  the  house  and  great  dark  parlor, 
Haunt  us  like  a  last  farewell. 

And  our  Willie's  tiny  casket, 
Gleaming  out  so  ghastly  white, 

With  the  myrtle  twining  round  him, 
Falleth  yet  upon  the  sight. 

But  his  golden  locks  will  nestle 
On  my  mother-heart  no  more ; 

For  our  Willie,  Baby  Willie, 
Has  crossed  to  that  other  Shore ! 


552  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

And  his  violet  eyes  will  never, 
Never  more  look  into  mine, 

With  their  shy  and  questioning  glances. 
Ere  white  death  had  made  him  thine. 

And  the  lips  that  like  a  rosebud 
Seemed  to  me  in  soft  caress, 

Will  they  nevermore,  my  baby, 
'Gainst  your  mother's  sweetly  press? 

No,  for  angels  up  in  heaven 
Did  they  make  you  one  with  God ; 

But  to-day  within  the  churchyard 
Is  a  mound  with  flowered  sod. 

Taken  ere  you  lisped  out  "mamma,"1 
In  your  soft  and  baby  way, 

And  could  know  a  mother's  sorrow 
If  her  babe  were  ta'en  away. 

But  we  feel  you  are  in  heaven 
With  the  angels  winged  and  fair ; 

So  we  leave  you,  darling  Willie, 
Till  we  too  are  taken  there ! 


THE  BRONZE  SOLDIER. 

And  still  thou  hast  not  stirred,  bronze  soldier, 
Tho'  changing  seasons  sweep  thy  form ; 

And  ever  dost  thou  wait  the  summons, 
As  when  Rebellion's  wildered  storm 

O'erswept  the  land  with  red  disaster, 
And  many  a  homestead  bathed  in  blood ; 

But  wait  in  vain  for  thy  commander, 
No,  nevermore,  through  gore  and  mud 

Will  lead  you  on  to  reddest  victory, 
O'er  Southern  dead ;  so,  stand  alone, 
In  bronze  upon  thy  granite  stone. 

For  you  were  brave,  and  now  forever 
Thy  bravery  sure  will  live  and  last ; 

They  ne'er  will  rouse  you  on  the  morrow, 
For  Southern  zephyrs  long  have  cast 

Their  fairest  flowerets  on  the  trenches 


THE  BRONZE  SOLDIER.  553 

Where  Blue  and  Gray  commingled  lie ; 
The  years  have  swept  the  bloodier  places 

Where  heroes  then  were  left  to  die, 
And  long  ere  they  could  know  the  verdict 

Of  great  Rebellion  then  in  sway 

Between  the  sons  of  Blue  and  Gray. 

You  front  the  east  as  you  would  gather 

The  news  of  battles  far  away ; 
And  ever  shall  you  listen,  listen, 

And  all  in  vain,  for  such  as  they 
Have  long  since  left  the  fleld  of  battle 

For  other  fields  more  peaceful  made 
By  wiser  laws  and  braver  heroes, 

For  laurels  will  the  soonest  fade 
Upon  the  grave  of  him  who  battled 

Against  his  brother,  than  the  one 

Who,  Gladstone-like,  with  Love  has  won! 

The  great  round  clock  upon  the  tower 

Has  told  the  days  and  fleeting  years ; 
Behind  thy  back  his  bell  clanged  loudly, 

Till  nevermore  the  falling  tears, 
That  mothers  shed  on  land  of  Freedom, 

No,  nevermore  are  falling  now, 
For  rounding  moons,  and  sun  of  heaven, 

Have  long  since  seen  the  lilies  bow 
Where  twenty  years  ago,  brave  soldier, 

On  blood-dyed  and  embattled  plain, 

They  piled  the  war's  heroic  slain ! 

Your  head  is  bowed  as  you  were  thinking 

The  random  gun  would  soon  ring  out ; 
You  clench  your  weapon  as  to  action 

Your  brave  commander  there  would  shout ; 
But  no !    For  years  you  there  have  waited 

The  orders  that  have  never  come ; 
But  time  shall  lay  the  elms  around  thee, 

Shall  shadow  many  a  happy  home ; 
And  still  you'll  wait  to  hear  the  order : 

*'  The  foe  !    To  arms !"  and  all  in  vain, 

The  last  brave  hero  has  been  slain. 

And  war  is  but  a  dreamed-of  story, 

A  remnant  hardly  is  there  found ; 
But  come,  brave  soldier,  you  shall  travel 

To  Southern  lands.    The  hostile  ground, 
In  many  a  blooming  summer's  history, 


554  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

Is  lost  for  aye.    The  Spring  came  there, 
And  happiest  of  the  sunny  summers ; 

And  autumn  spread  abundance  where 
The  dead  man  faced  the  pitying  moon  then, 

And  knew  not  when  the  cannon  pealed, 

Or  red,  red  Victory  crowned  the  field. 

Your  left  foot  still  is  reaching  forward 
As  you  would  march  at  quick  command, 

While  in  your  belt  the  gleaming  bayonet 
Still  waits  the  grasp  of  soldier  hand ; 

Your  foot  has  never  moved,  bronze  Soldier, 
The  loud  command  has  never  come ; 

The  ugly  bayonet  still  is  hanging 
Beside  you,  soldier,  silent,  dumb ; 

The  years  have  swept  you,  and  the  seasons, 
And  war's  grim  notes  have  died  away, 
Till  Blue  has  faded  into  Gray ! 

The  great  blue  sky  is  spread  above  you, 
The  stars  have  come  and  looked  on  thee, 

And  silvery  moons  have  rounded  fuller 
Since  colored  brothers  were  made  free, 

And  blood  ran  like  a  great  broad  river 
Across  the  parched  Southern  plains, 

With  tears  commingled,  shed  by  sisters, 
And  brave  gray  mothers ;  yet  remains 

Thy  form  of  bronze,  and  hast  not  told  you 
That  long  since  was  the  great  War  done, 
The  last  red  battle  fought  and  won. 

A  private,  but  thou  hast  thine  honors, 
For,  soldier,  hadst  thou  disobeyed, 

The  captain,  and  the  great  commander, 
Had  never  raised  the  laureled  blade ; 

And  he  who  lived  our  calmest  hero, 
Our  matchless  Grant,  would  not  to-day 

Be  watched  by  all  the  land  of  Freedom, 
As  fell  disease  asserts  its  sway, 

A  hero  that  no  man  has  conquered, 
Nor  by  the  sword  nor  treacherous  gun, 
E'en  death  our  hero  has  not  won. 

But  watch  and  wait,  the  storms  of  heaven 
Will  burst  in  madness  o'er  thee  there, 

The  storm  will  clear,  and  moon  and  starshine 
Will  woo  the  cheek  of  lady  fair, 

With  lovers  that  young  captain  Cupid 


fD   WOO  A   CLASSIC  MAW.  555 

Shall  lead  to  battle  grand  and  grim, 
But  bloodless,  tho'  the  hearts  are  broken 

Of  many  a  valorous  brave.    'Tis  dim, 
Thy  history,  brave  bronze  soldier ;  lovers 

Walking  beneath  thee  have  no  thought 

Of  battles  once  you  bravely  fought. 

.But  years  will  know  thee,  when  have  faded 

The  loved  and  lover  wandering  there ; 
Like  Grecian  Urn  in  hand  of  genius 

You  cannot  fade,  for  she  was  fair, 
And  fair  forever ;  you  a  hero 

A  hero  still,  and  cannot  die ; 
Own,  own  thy  laurels,  brave  bronze  soldier ; 

In  Southern  graves  they  mouldering  lie, 
They,  they  who  once  were  living  heroes, 

But  who  to-day  are  all  unknown, 

While  you  remain  in  bronze  and  stone. 

So  watch  and  wait,  and  coming  morrows 

Shall  find  thee  still  unmouldered  there, 
With  ready  gun  and  ammunition, 

When  they  who  raised  thee  bronzed  fair, 
Have  long  since  mouldered  in  the  graveyard ; 

And  sculptor  leaves  no  lettered  line. 
So,  last,  old  Claremont's  bronzed  Soldier ! 

Till  in  the  land  remains  no  sign 
Of  our  great  Nation's  sad  Rebellion, 

And  native  schoolboy  cannot  say 

What  once  was  meant  by  Blue  and  Gray. 


I'D  WOO  A  CLASSIC   MAID, 


I  thought  I'd  woo  a  classic  maid 

Upon  the  banks  of  Rhone, 
And  she  would  be  so  dear  to  me 

When  she  was  all  my  own. 

CHORUS. 

O  woo  with  me  the  classic  maid 
'Neath  soft  Italian  skies, 

And  heaven's  blue  will  shine  on  you 
From  out  her  liquid  eyes. 


556  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

I  got  my  Virgil  all  by  heart, 
Old  Homer  conned  apace, 

Until  I  -felt  the  maid  would  melt 
While  gazing  in  my  face. 

I  studied  up  old  Grecian  art, 
The  classic  bards  I  read, 

For  she  was,  ah !  a  classic  star, 
In  Rome  was  born  and  bred. 

I'd  heard  of  love  of  Robert  Burns, 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 

That  she  was  fair  his  Mary  rare, 
A  sweet  and  rustic  maid. 

But  ah,  ha,  ha !  no  country  girl 

For  such  a  man  as  I, 
Since  mine  was  e'en  a  classic  queen, 

With  language  in  her  eye. 

For  I  would  court  and  woo  in  Greek, 
And  every  living  tongue, 

And  trained  birds  would  sing  the  words 
By  Grecian  poets  sung. 

The  time  is  past,  but  ah,  ha,  ha ! 

I  found  old  Love  the  same, 
Whether  a  girlvwith  rustic  curl, 

Or  lady  born  to  fame. 

So,  woo  with  me  the  classic  maid 
'Neath  soft  Italian  skies, 

And  heaven's  blue  will  shine  on  you 
From  out  her  liquid  eyes. 


THOSE  THAT  WORE  THE  GRAY, 


If  I  write  my  song  to-day, 
Can  I,  must  I  hate  the  Gray? 
Tell  me,  Yet'ran,  tell  me  true ; 
You  were  one  that  wore  the  Blue, 
Met  them  in  the  hot  array 
When  a  nation  watched  the  fray, 
And  shy  Victory  hung  the  field, 


THOSE  THAT  WuRE  THE  GRAY.  957 

Where  the  hostile  cannon  pealed, 
Where  the  armies  wreathed  in  smoke, 
Where  the  horrid  sabre  stroke, 
And  the  bravest  of  the  brav« 
Filled  a  hero's  unknown  grave ! 
You  that  saw  them ;  can  you  say : 
"Poet,  thou  shalt  hate  the  gray. 
You  were  young,  and  could  not  go 
Where  the  cannon  bellowed  low, 
Where  the  battery  rang  and  roared, 
And  our  heroes'  blood  was  poured. 
But  I  tell  you,  tell  you  true, 
They  were  brave  that  wore  the  blue ; 
E'en  as  valorous,  too,  as  they, 
Were  the  ones  that  wore  the  gray. 
But,  ah  me !  as  there  they  fell, 
And  I  heard  the  rebel  yell, 
Heard  the  shot  and  horrid  shell, 
Knew  that  they  were  mortal  foes, 
And  the  stars  and  stripes  that  rose, 
Rose  in  vain  if  they  should  win ; 
Then  amid  the  battle's  din 
Felt  I  every  man  should  die ; 
On  the  blood-wet  field  should  lie, 
Who  had  dared  to  curse  the  nag 
Hanging  there  with  many  a  rag, 
Torn  to  shreds  by  rebel  balls, 
By  the  Lees  and  old  Stonewalls. 
Yes,  should  lie  beneath  the  sod, 

With  nor  name  nor  slab  above  him, 
Sleeping  in  a  traitor's  grave, 

With  nor  friend  nor  mate  to  love  him. 
But  to-day,  though  unforgot 

The  bitter  cause  that  did  dissever, 
I  would  say  to  Blue  snd  Gray : 

'Join  your  hands  in  Love  forever!" ' 


A  CLUSTER  OF  SONNETS. 


BEATRICE  CENCI. 
In  Marble.— Hosmer. 


O  Sculptress  of  the  heaven-born  art,  to  thee 

Did  Guido  lend  his  painted  inspiration 

That  marble  Cenci  of  thy  own  creation 
Might  thrall  thy  country?  O'er  the  ploughed  sea 
Give  fame,  a  name,  and  immortality  ? 

But,  na'theless,  it  has  a  true  relation 

Unto  the  highest  art.    O  aspiration 
In  crowned  marble !  Baby-faced  Beauty  ! 

St.  Louis,  thou  art  envied !  There  asleep 
She  lies  in  sculptured  innocence.    The  morn 

Of  execution !  Yet  she  does  not  weep. 
As  calm  as  carved  marble  !  Did  they  warn 

Now  all  in  vain !  The  fatal  moments  creep, 
And  death  at  last  made  all  dear  friends  forlorn  ! 

ii. 

O  lovely  Beatrice !  as  now  I  gaze 
Upon  thy  chiseled  form,  I  see  thee  sleeping ; 
No  marble  teardrops  there  have  told  thee  weeping;  , 

But  heaven  on  thee  has  shed  her  mildest  rays, 

And  there  recumbent  soft  thy  one  hand  plays 
With  cross-deckt  rosary.    And  the  hours  are  keeping 
An  undreamed  record.    Dreamless  sleep  is  steeping 

Thy  inborn  faculties  since  those  fated  days. 

But  sleep,  O  Beatrice !  on  marble  pillow, 
With  marble  curls  upon  thy  marble  cheek, 

With  sculptured  eye  and  dainty  carved  brow, 
And  nose,  tho'  Death  has  swept  with  turgid  billow 
O'er  thee !    Thy  marble  lips,  it  seems,  would  speak, 
And  tell  the  world  of  all  thy  beauty  now. 
558 


A   CLUSTEE   OF  SONNETS.  559 

in. 
Within  the  Barberini  Palace,  Rome, 

Does  Guide's  portrait  live  in  painted  art ; 

His  heroine's  baby  face  might  touch  the  heart, 
And  turn  a  prodigal's  thoughts  to  Mother!— Home ! 
His  eye  to  heaven  who  reads  inspired  Tome ; 

And  yet  its  sphynx-like  character  a  dart 

Sends  winged,  as  Latona  were  a  part, 
Or  animal  statue  on  a  prison  dome. 

And  yet  it  fascinates  despite  the  crime 
Attached  to  her  name.    Unstudied  grace, 
In  half  unconscious  calm,  is  hers  alone, 
Lending  a  heavenly  peace  to  painted  face ; 
But  Picture  great,  and  Statue  deck  my  rhyme, 
For  poet's  art  these  sister  arts  would  own. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 
In.  Marble,— Powers. 

IV. 

Inspired  Lady !  *  if  I  trespass  where 
Your  Pen  immortal  lines  has  traced,  forgive! 
Wast  here  the  speechless  marble  first  did  live, 

And  in  her  chiseled  eloquence  more  fair 

Than  he  had  felt,  did  breathe  her  native  air 
In  vales  unclassic?    Here,  unfugitive, 
Might  blushless  Slave,  with  lines  diminutive, 

Hold  sway  immortal.    Beauty  wrapt  in  prayer ! 

O  Italy !  thy  Florence  yet  may  own 
Her  place  of  sculpture,  yet  my  song  would  be, 

He  yet  was  ours,  and  there  transplanted  grew 
Our  loved  America,  f am£d  Italy ! 

So,  honors  cluster  round  you.    He  that  dre"w 
Our  lands  together,  made  each  other  known! 

v. 

In  whitest  silence  did  you  see  her !    Her 
Ideal  beauty  in  the  house  of  anguish 
An  alien  Image  seemed.    And  lovelier 
That  both  her  white  unshackled  hands  did  languish, 
As  thought  were  in  their  marble  loveliness, 
And  speech  were  theirs  appealing  from  their  chains, 
And  eloquent  more  from  modest  nakedness, 
*Mrs.  Bjowning. 


560  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

As  thro'  the  air  the  hurt  bird  sends  refrains ; 

For^wrought  Imagination  to  the  skies 

In  winged  tears  had  gone,  such  holy  beauty 

Seemed  looking  from  her  moveless  stony  eyes, 

As  'twere,  e'en  there,  the  white  wind's  dainty  duty 

To  love  her  in  her  stony  beauty  there, 

To  pity  one  was  chained  that  was  so  fair. 

VI. 

Powers !  thy  name  shall  live  in  chiseled  art, 
Tho'  unknown  bard  had  sung  her  beauty  not ; 
Tho'  yet  unknown  that  Florence  was  the  spot 

Where  marble  took  a  shape  divine,  the  heart 

Of  human  being  touched.    You  took  the  part 
Of;  magic  sculptor,  and  to  beauty  wrought 
The  once  unbuilded  beauty  of  your  thought, 

Your  mind-wed  loveliness  did  there  impart ! 

Till  lovely  Greek  in  marble  lovelier  seemed, 
Accenting  liberation  from  the  yoke 

Of  Turkish  thralldom,  as  the  marble  dreamed, 
And  there  in  her  unsyllabled  anguish  spoke 
From  more  than  marble  lips,  and  winning  those 

With  unsaid  word,  who  knew  her  country's  woes. 


NYDIA,  THE  BLIND  GIKL  OF  POMPEII. 
In  Marble.— Rogers. 

VII. 

Blind  Nydia,  poor,  poor  Nydia,  art  alone? 
Are  none  to  pity  thee,  and  take  thy  hand 
And  lead  thee  forth  from  doomed  city  ?    Shone 
The  heavens  red  above  the  fated  land, 
The  ashes  filled  the  air  like  hugest  veil ; 
And  then  Pompeii  knew  her  ruin  near ; 
But  Nydia,  poor  blind  Nydia,  hear  her  wail ! 
From  out  her  sightless  eye  there  falls  the  tear 
Of  anguish ;  for  her  lover,  he  has  fled, 
And  all  her  searching  seeemeth  vain,  ah  vain ! 
And  yet  my  blind-girl  will  not  feel  him  dead, 
Tho'  dust  and  fiery  ashes  daze  her  brain ; 
Yet  oft  she  pauses  in  her  nameless  fear, 
Her  one  left  hand  against  her  listening  ear. 


A    CLUSTEH   OF  SONNETS.  «61 


She  cryeth  loud,  she  pauses,  listening  still, 

With  bended  form  upon  her  staff.    No  sound, 

Save  hissing  ashes.    Ruin  hath  its  will, 

And  mad  Vesuvius  showers  the  heated  ground 

With  hot  destruction,  till  the  populace 

Are  wild  with  fright,  forgetful  of  the  blind, 

Unheeding  Nydia,  and  her  woe-worn  face, 

Her  scant  skirts  blown  by  every  wayward  wind ; 

Her  bare  feet  bruised  by  every  unhewn  stone ; 

And  yet  poor  Xydia  hurried  on.    Her  voice 

Rang  thro'  the  treacherous  sounds.    And  still  alone 

She  wanders ;  but  the  dear  one  of  her  choice 

Gave  back  no  word.    The  blinding  ashes  fell, 

And  great  Pompeii  heard  its  fatal  knell. 


Another  Psyche  in  her  wanderings !    Hope 

She  grew ;  but  Glaucus  never,  never  heard. 

O  Xydia !  O  my  blind  and  fluttering  bird, 
That  Gate  of  Clouds  in  farway  heaven  might  ope 
And  let  thee  in.    But  no,  thro'  ashes  grope 

To  certain  death,  from  Glaucus  not  a  word ! 

O  pity,  Xydia,  you  had  ever  stirred 
To  seek  thy  love  like  wildered  antelope ! 

In  living  marble  thou  art  listening  yet, 
Thy  head  bent  forward,  with  thy  parted  lip 

As  if  to  tell  his  Xydia'll  ne'er  forget 
Until  the  Pompeiian  winecup  she  may  sip 

And  die  in  blindness  for  her  Glaucus  love, 

'Mid  smoke  and  ashes  like  a  half-afraid  dove ! 


THE  L11JYAX  SIBYL. 
In  Marble,— Story. 


He  is  no  poet  true  who  cannot  see 
Beaut}'  in  everything,  what  tho'  of  stars 
In  sky,  a  tree,  a  shrub,  a  warful  Mars, 

A  spear  of  grass,  a  flower  beside  the  Dee, 

An  unsung  brook  thro'  meadows  wandering  free, 
A  god  or  goddess  in  their  winged  cars, 
A  culprit  staring  thro'  his  prison  bars. 

Or  anything,  O  Earth !  that's  dear  to  thee. 
37 


£62    •  I'll E  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

The  eye  has  no  restrictions,  it  may  rest 
On  beauties  all  around,  or  woo  a  spot 

Of  tenderer  green,  where  nature  lavish  drest 
The  whispering  dell,  or  where  the  sun  is  caught 

A-peeping  thro'  my  lady's  blind  to  guess 

How  she  would  look  in  gossamery  undress. 

XI. 

My  eye  is  pleased  with  gazing  on  a  stone 
Enshackled  in  the  earth  with  unhewn  face, 
And  let  the  mind  its  coming  beauty  trace, 

As  some  imagined  Story  stands  alone, 

His  unkempt  hair  by  heavenly  zephyrs  blown, 
And  builds  to  beauty  with  an  ugly  mace, 
And  harshest  tool,  a  thing  divine !    We  place 

A  laurel  on  his  brow,  and  claim  our  own. 

For  we  are  proud  that  he  has  done  so  much, 
That  he  has  made  immortal  part  of  earth, 

That  he  has  turned  the  stone  with  finer  touch 
To  thing  that  seems  immortal  in  its  birth ; 

And  all  the  world  will  claim  him  for  his  powers ; 

We  thank  them ;  but  they  still  must  leave  him  ours. 

XII. 

By  Hawthorne's  touch  his  Cleopatra  seemed 
More  lovely,  Story's ;  and  his  marble  maid 
In  all  of  Cleopatra's  glory  'rayed 

Unsullied  in  her  marble  beauty  dreamed, 

As  if  her  Africa  were  late  redeemed 
From  all  her  secret  unsolved  past,  and  laid 
Her  charactered  Scroll  (that  sun  and  time  might  fade) 

As  bare  as  day,  where  whitest  Sol  had  gleamed. 

The  Sibyl  of  her  people,  weird  and  grand, 
As  master  sculptor  saw  her  Afric  heart, 

And  with  the  sweep  of  mind  directed  hand, 
Made  Libyan  girl  imperishable  in  Art, 

Forever  watching  in  her  stony  gaze, 

The  grim  old  past  of  Afric's  darkest  days. 

XIII, 

A  mystery !    Yet  no  'serpent  of  old  Nile' ; 

She  holds  her  country's  secrets,  holds  them  still ; 

You  see  the  clenched  Scroll.    She  has  her  will ; 
But  in  her  stony  loveliness  the  while 
The  human  eye  may  see  (and  not  defile 


A    CLUSTER   OF  SONNETS.  563 

Its  own  white  structure  there)  each  marble  hill 
Asserting  possible  motherhood.    'Twere  ill 
In  one,  however  great,  who  would  revile ! 

To  me  there  shines  but  sculptor's  magic  art, 
Leading  the  mind  from  beauty  unto  beauty, 

From  line  to  lovelier  line,  till  she  a  part 
Of  heaven  seems.    'Twere  only  Tyro's  duty 

To  turn  the  crisp  nose  up  that  scant  attire 

Might  lead  a  Collatine  with  false  desire. 

XIV. 

The  child  of  secrets,  yet  you  need  not  fear, 

O  Africa !    Her  lower  limbs  are  locked ; 

Her  hand  is  'gainst  her  chin.    For  had  she  talked 
Her  land  were  doomed.    Her  stony  eye  no  tear, 
Her  form  no  tremor.    Rounding  year  by  year 

She  sits.    She  will  not  tell.    You  are  not  shocked. 

The  Stanleys  thro'  your  Continent  have  walked, 
Your  mysteries  growing  clear  and  more  clear. 

In  stone  you  sit  forever !    Round  your  neck 
The  ancient  symbol  hangs.    Upon  your  head 

The  Ammonite  horn  rests.    But  who  may  reck 
Your  country's  future  ?    Have  the  Stanleys  led 

The  natives  of  your  unsolved  Xile  from  night 

Into  a  day  of  broader,  grander  light  ? 


MEDEA. 
In  Marble,— Story. 

xv. 
O  Nubian-featured  Cleopatra,  did 

Thy  sculptor  make  Medea  less  than  Greek  ? 

Defying  history,  Adelaide  ?*    Wilt  speak 
With  marble  tongue,  or  lift  the  stony  lid, 
Or  tell  with  carved  mouth  if  ought  be  hid  ? 

You  fear  her  dagger  ?    My  Medea  will  wreak 

No  woe  upon  thee.    Tell  us  by  what  freak 
'Twas  done.    Because  high  Genius  loves  to  bid 

Defiance  to  the  schoolman's  rule,  and  lend 
A  magic  power  that  has  no  limit,  bound, 

And  like  a  Lamb  despise  all  rule,  transcend 
Rhetoric  art,  and  from  the  dust,  the  ground, 

Raise  beauties  dearer  to  the  sculptor's  heart 

Than  all  the  rules  of  old  methodic  art. 
*Adeiaide  Ristori. 


564  THE  LADY  OF  DAEDALE. 

• 

XVI. 

A  Clytemnestra  fair,  with  dagger-hand 
Beneath  thy  banded  arm,  a  cruel  eye 
So  treacherous  in  its  stony  glance,  so  shy, 

The  blood  is  creeping.    In  thy  Grecian  land, 

(O  fair  Barbarian !)  you  slew  them,  a  band 
Of  children  each  thy  own.    But  did  they  cry, 
"O  mother,  spare !"    Beneath  the  great  blue  sky 

You  had  revenge,  for  Colchian  Sorceress  planned ! 

And  yet  in  all  your  marble  loveliness, 
With  clothed  limbs  and  sandeled  feet,  'twere  hard, 

'Twere  yet  sublime,  for  poet  to  confess, 
You  were  so  cruel,  you  could  not  regard 

The  helplessness  of  all  your  children  dear, 

And  slew  them  coldly  with  unshedded  tear! 


LE  PREMIERE  POSE. 
In  Marble, — Roberts. 

XVII. 

O  Modesty !    O  Purity !    O  Pure 
And  lovely  Maid !  the  angels  wrill  forget 
Thee  never.    Art  will  owe  to  thee  a  debt 

Till  starlights  fall ;  for  you,  sweet  maid,  will  lure 

The  thought  to  heaven.    Yet  may  you  not  endure 
The  painter's  eye.    But  as  your  mother's  pet 
At  home,  with  holier  thoughts  you  had  not  met 

Than  his,  for  with  him  Chastity  is  sure. 

And  so,  fair  girl,  feel  not  thy  pulses  throb 
That  thou  art  naked.    He'll  immortalize 

Thy  beauty,  all  thy  loveliness,  nor  rob 
Thee,  maid,  of  one  fair  virtue  with  his  eyes ; 

For  with  the  beauty  of  unsullied  Thought 

He  sees  thee  in  thy  Purity  daintily  wrought. 

XVIII. 

So,  pose  in  all  thy  holy  beauty ;  he 
Will  leave  thee  e'en  as  pure  as  first  he  found 

Thee,— Death,  perchance  has  ravished  all  thy  beauty 
These  many  years ;  and  violets  on  thy  mound 

Have  bloomed  in  vain.    But  yet  thy  beauty  rare 
Remains  in  speechless  marble,  true  to  life  ; 

No  fashion  makes  thee  out  of  fashion  there ; 


A    CLUSTER   OF  SONXETS.  565 

For  fashion  is  of  clothes,  uncrowned  Wife  ! 
You  blushed  that  he  would  have  thy  statue  nude, 

In  all  thy  naked  loveliness  sublime  ; 
You  trembled  that  the  sculptor  did  intrude 

Upon  thy  sacred  privacy.    Yet  time 
Has  slain  thee  not,  for  while  the  body  moulders, 
You  live  in  marble,  ravish  all  beholders. 

XIX. 

So  I  may  know  you  were  a  lovely  maid, 

For  on  your  marble  figure  I  may  gaze, 

Your  eyes  are  closed,  your  stony  locks  have  strayed, 

You  are  as  lovely  as  the  storied  fays, 

With  limbs  drawn  up  to  hide  thy  nakedness, 

With  arm  drawn  up  to  shield  thy  modest  face, 

As  there  in  all  thy  undraped  loveliness 

You  wait.    Your  right  hand  clutches  at  the  lace, 

Thy  strange  chair's  drapery.    A  comic  head 

Is  peering  by  thy  shoulder.    So  he  wrought 

Until  to  whitest  marble  you  are  wed 

In  all  the  lovely  magic  of  his  thought, 

Unsullied  yet,  and  loved  by  many  a  heart, 

Who  ne'er  had  known  thee  but  for  highest  Art. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 
In  Marble,— Palmer. 
xx. 

O  winged  Angel,  sitting  lone,  wilt  guard 
The  Master's  tomb  from  earthly  touch  or  glance, 
Thy  soft  angelic  features  in  a  trance, 

As  Time  were  weighing  on  thee  ?    Thou  art  starred 

By  Heaven  high,  and  not  a  thought  has  marred 
Thy  countenance  divine.  Time  will  enhance 
Thy  beauty  more.  But  Death  has  shot  his  lance, 

And  now  He  sleepeth  like  a  heavenly  bard. 

But  has  He  risen  ?    Ope  the  sepulchre 
And  gaze.    The  Resurrection  is,  and  He 

Is  risen !  Hearken !    Do  you  hear  the  stir 
Of  winds  ?    Their  footsteps'*  sound  ?    And  Galilee 

Still  sings  her  mournful  dirges  o'er  and  o'er, 

For  He  has  risen,  gained  that  other  Shore ! 
*Christ's  disciples. 


566  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

XXI. 

And  still  in  whitest  marble  do  you  wait ; 
But  all  in  vain,  in  vain.    Thy  marble  eye 
No  more  shall  see  the  risen  Master  nigh ; 

Nor  marble  cheek  regain  its  hue.    Elate 

No  more  shall  be  thy  marble  heart.    'Twere  fate 
That  He  should  go.    From  out  the  great  grand  sky 
He  smiles  upoirthee.    Marble  tears  may  dry, 

For  in  the  heavens  He  still  may  be  thy  mate. 

For  good  of  earth  and  good  of  heaven  wed, 
Tho'  oceans  swell  between.    Rapt  Palmer  wrought 

Till  thou  seem'st  living  tho'  thou  may  be  dead 
To  earth.    But  from  the  beauty  of  his  thought 

Thy  angel  self  may  last  in  peace  for  aye, 

Till  moon  and  starlights  fall  before  that  Day. 


OPHELIA. 
In  Marble, — Connelly. 

XXII. 

Ophelia,  naught  of  madness  do  I  see 
Within  thy  marble  face.    Thy  Hamlet,  nay, 
He  will  not  love  thee.    Some  sweet  birci  astray 

You  seem.    But  he  is  drawn  with  all  thy  beauty ; 

And  yet  he  may  not  say :  "Ophelia,  we 
May  love  and  never  wed."    And  she  was  gay, 
But  tears  came.    Ballads  old.    A  roundelay 

In  madness  fell.    We  hear  the  mournful  sea. 

It  sings  of  wedless  love.    A  Prince  that  won 
And  never  wed.— O  marble  maiden !  I 

Do  pity  thee.    The  times  were  bad.    'Twas  done, 
And  poor  Ophelia  sang  her  ballads  by 

The  wayside,  all  unheeded  and  alone, — 

But  lives  Ophelia  in  enchanted  stone ! 


A  CHAIN  OF  SONNETS, 
i. 

What  matters  it  where  one  leaves  his  corpse.— Rousseau. 
No  matter,  for  the  world  will  claim  its  own, 
And  love  its  Homers  tho'  a  Greece  may  claim ; 
For  such  have  won  the  everlasting  fame 
Of  Poet.    O'er  their  sepulchre  no  stone, 


A  CHAIN  OF  SONNETS.  567 

No  slab  to  mark  them  sleeping  there  alone, 
Their  ashes  still  within  no  urn;  their  name 
Shall  echo  on,  and  on,  and  be  the  same, 

Though  not  a  shred,  a  clue,  a  poet's  bone, 

To  prove  that  here  a  tender  singer  lies, 
Who  won  the  world  with  magic  of  his  song, 

And  soaring  from  them  to  the  rainless  skies, 
Rejoined  in  heaven  fair  the  laureled  throng 

That  came  to  earth  with  golden  stringed  lyres, 

And  filled  the  great  grand  land  with  soft  desires. 

n. 

Westminster  Abbey !  and  the  bard  is  dumb  ! 
O  storied  Pile  !    O  grandeur  and  renown  ! 
O  Building  vast,  with  stony  stare,  and  glum, 
To-day,  within  thy  busy  English  town, 
Thou  hast  the  treasures  of  a  distant  land, 
The  dust  of  poets,  sculptors,  statesmen  !    There 
The  ashes  sleep  of  him  who  led  the  band 
Of  English  bards,  sweet  Chaucer.    Otherwhere 
His  songs  have  gone,  till  every  lettered  clime 
Has  claimed.    There,  too,  rapt  Spenser  sleeps  the  sleep 
Of  death.    And  yet  the  world  has  loved  his  rhyme, 
And  care  not  where  the  bard  was  born,  but  keep 
His  memory  fresh.    Our  Beaumont,  too,  we  find 
With  kings,  and  princes,  bards,  is  there  enshrined. 

in. 
Drayton  is  sleeping  in  this  hushed  tomb 

Of  Death,  with  lords,  and  English  earls,  for  friends, 
And  'rare  Ben.  Jonson'  with  his  fame  abloom 

In  many  a  foreign  land.    In  beauty  blends 
'The  storied  urn  or  animated  bust' 

Above  the  ashes  of  the  sleeping  dead, 
We  trespass,  there  intrude.    The  smell  of  must 

Like  incense  o'er  the  hallowel  place  is  shed ; 
And  yet  their  fames  live  on  forever !    Years ! 

Ye  cannot  take  them  from  us.    They  are  ours ; 
And  tho'  we  long  since  wiped  the  falling  tears, 

We  yet  may  strew  our  fair  and  fadeless  flowers; 
For  death  can  never  take  their  names  away 
Nor  dull  the  beauty  of  their  caroled  lay. 

IV. 

And  Cowley,  Congreve,  Sheridan  and  Gay, 
And  crowned  Campbell,  rest  within  thy  shade, 
To  glory  adding  glory  in  their  day ; 
To  glory  adding  glory  time  has  made ; 


568  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But  ill-starred  Byron  found  not  death's  repose 

Within  thy  sacred  precincts !    Hucknell  Church ! 

To  thee  the  sacred  trust  is  given !    Blows 

The  floweret  in  the  field.    The  silver  birch 

Still  has  its  Springtime  choir,  and  unforgot 

The  weird  hard  sleeps.    But  Newstead  Abbey  near, 

May  see  the  traveled  tourist  seek  the  spot, 

And  for  his  genius  drop  the  unbidden  tear ! 

Memorial  marble  sanctifies  thy  Shrine, 

O  Abbey  I  sculptured  by  a  hand  divine. 

v, 

The  dust  of  many  an  English  poet  sleeps 
In  other  lands,  their  mouldering  graves  unknown 
To  all  but  dearest  friend.    But  sculptured  stone, 

In  Poet's  Corner,  all  their  memory  keeps 

Unsullied,  sacred ;  and  the  red  blood  leaps 
Across  the  cheek  as  Fancy  paints  them  lone 
In  foreign  clime,  and  Music's  raptured  tone 

Seems  sounding  far,  till  tranced  poet  weeps. 

But  still  the  grand  memorial  stone  may  say : 
"They  sleep  the  sleep  of  death  in  other  lands ; 

But  yet  we  own  their  grand  melodious  lay ; 
And  in  our  Abbey,  by  unselfish  hands, 

The  builded  marble  tells  their  tale  of  fame, 

The  rare  sweet  merit  of  their  hallowed  name." 

VI. 

And  there,  O  dear  Memorial  of  a  Bard* 
The  whole  world  loves,  you  shine  in  beauty  rare 
For  him  Avho  died  when  all  the  land  had  starred ; 
When  all  the  earth  had  thought  him  faultless  fair ; 
When  all  the  world  had  crowned  him  with  the  great 
But  death  drew  nigh,  and  while  his  ashes  rest 
In  native  land,  his  storied  bust  was  late 
Enshrined  in  England's  grandest  pile !    The  West, 
The  East,  the  North,  the  South  do  homage  now 
That  he  is  dead.    And  mother  country  lends 
Her  glory  to  his  name ;  and  there  may  bow 
The  two  proud  Nations,  till  his  beauty  blends 
These  two  great  leading  Countries  of  the  earth, 
As  heaven  had  been  their  place  of  happy  birth. 

VII. 

Beside  the  silver  Avon  sleeps  the  dust 
Of  Shakespeare.    And  our  holy  Milton  dreams 
*Longfellow. 


A    CHAIN  OF  SONNETS.  569 

Within  the  churchyard  of  St.  Giles.    We  trust 

The  ones  that  broke  his  rest  are  sane.    The  streams 
Of  Paradise  sing  carols  to  his  name ; 

But  still  he  sleeps,  but  still  he  sleeps.    Near  by, 
John  Foxe  the  humble  tutor  lies.    But  fame, 

Undying,  lives  for  aye.    The  voice  may  cry 
TLat  death  has  come ;  but  still  their  songs  remain 

To  glad  the  land.    Our  Pope  within  the  church 
At  Twickenham  is  sleeping.    Free  from  pain 

In  Richmond  churchyard  where  the  birds  may  perch, 
Loved  Thompson  lieth.    They  are  scattered  wide ; 
But  all  the  world  has  crowned  them  side  by  side. 

VIII. 

And  Gray  is  resting  in  Stoke-Pogis  churchyard 

Where  once  he  sang  his  deathless  lay.    The  mind 

Is  winged.    Oliver  Goldsmith  (tenderest  bard!) 

At  Temple  church  will  sing  no  more.    The  wind 

Has  fanned  the  blooming  flowers.    And  earth  may  weep 

That  they  are  gone.    But,  peace !    They  left  their  lyres, 

And  he  may  touch  who  will.    The  willows  keep 

A  quiet  shade  for  them.    'Their  wonted  fires' 

Remain  and  hallow  all  the  land.    Their  tombs 

Are  all  about  us.    Cowper  lies  at  last 

At  Dareham,  where  his  rural  floweret  blooms 

In  beauty.    And  the  living  bard  may  cast 

His  flowers  upon  the  tomb  of  Coleridge  where 

He  rests  in  old  St.  Michael's,  peaceful  there ! 


Southey  is  sleeping  soft  at  Keswick.    Cease, 
Ye  idle  tongues,  for  death  has  claimed  his  own, 
And  raised  the  cenotaph  and  fruited  stone, 
Made  glory  shine  in  other  lands  than  Greece, 
Kirk  White  has  wooed  at  last  with  proffered  peace 
To  Nottingham,  where  sweet  he  sleeps  alone ; 
And,  Kensal  Green,  at  last  Tom  Hood  has  flown 
To  death  and  thee.    But  Shelley !    O  release 
Me,  Death,  from  censuring  Thought,  for  you  that  slew 

Him  cold  upon  the  babbling  wave ;  and  thou, 
O  Superstition !  burned  him  'neath  the  blue 

Of  tearful  heaven.    But  Rome's  fair  flowerets  bow 
Above  his  ashes,  where  O  softly  sleep 
And  dream,  sweet  Lyrist !  nevermore  to  weep. 

x. 

And  Keats,  and  Severn  near  thee  dream  at  last, 
And  Goethe's  cherished  son !  Companionship 
More  fit  for  gods  than  men.  We  touch  the  lip 


570  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

As  we  would  stay  the  word  that  shapes  to  cast 
A  slur  on  death  that  he  has  made  them  fast 
In  unreplying  dreams.    The  moon  may  dip 
Her  horn  in  western  seas,  and  starlights  trip 
Behind  the  veiling  clouds.    'Tis  past,  'tis  past ! 

The  moon  and  stars  are  hid.    The  earth  is  veiled. 

They  sleep,  they  sleep !    And  will  not  wake,  not  wake ! 
The  birds  have  caroled  there ;  the  winds  have  wailed 

Their  last  sad  dirge.    But,  Death,  I  will  not  make 
A  war  on  thee,  for  He  that  sent  ye  here, 
Has  power  to  soothe,  and  dry  the  heart-shed  tear. 

XI. 

Beloved  Eloquence !  outspeaking  soft 

From  all  the  hallowed  past,  and  voicing  sweet 
The  memories  clustering  there,  the  lilies  doft 

Their  beauty,  but  their  glory  you  repeat 
In  glowing  language,  waking  into  speech 

The  voiceless  shaft  above  the  dust  of  those 
Who  sang  immortal  strains  and  died.    The  beach 

Does  echo  back  the  great  sea  roar,  as  blows 
Their  memories  from  the  past  on  gentle  gales 

Of  wounded  love. — O  Italy !  we  come 
To  thee,  and  there  in  Florence  fair  the  wails 

Are  heard  for  one  who  sang,  but  now  is  dumb 
In  death.    Sweet  Lady !  *    But  your  songs  remain, 
The  dainty  beauty  of  your  classic  strain. 

XII. 

O  Dryburgh  Abbey,  he  t  has  sought  thy  shades 

At  last,  and  Scotia  sheds  a  teardrop  for 

His  memory.    Soft  the  Scottish  daylight  fades, 

And  Burns,  the  darling  child  of  every  law 

That  tempts  the  human  heart,  steals  to  the  mind 

From  Dumfries'  'cloistered  shade.'    And  on  his  £  tomb, 

Sweet  singer,  you  erected  in  the  wind 
Of  heaven,  a  modest  stone ;  but  o'er  thee  bloom 
The  flowers  of  death.    But  Kamsays  and  Buchanans, 
All  poets  rare,  who  last  thro'  tearless  death, 
You  live  as  nature's  rarest  artisans, 
Tho'  nevermore  shall  heaven's  scented  breath 
Fan  soft  as  yore  thy  dear  and  laureled  brow, 
For  'neath  the  flowers  thou  art  sleeping  now ! 
*Mrs.  Browning.    fScott.    tFergusson's. 


A   CHAIN  OF  SONNETS. 


571 


And  now  sweet  Sonnet !  f aretheewell.    I  go 
As  one  who  yet  would  stay.    But,  f  aretheewell 
You  echo  in  my  ear  like  silver  bell 

From  over  quiet  seas.    The  zephyrs  blow 

From  inland  shores.  What  makes  your  music  so 
That  still  I'm  charmed,  and  yet  I  may  not  tell 
Why  so  it  is  ?  But  still  I  feel  your  spell, 

And  live  in  half  sung  songs  of  long  ago. 

Few  bards  have  loved  you,  Sonnet,  for  you  wind 
A  thousand  ways,  and  tease  the  poet's  soul 

With  many  a  dainty  rule.    But  if  his  mind 
Be  wrapt  in  thee,  your  volumed  numbers  roll 

In  grandest  beauty,  and  till  life  be  fled, 

The  sonnet  and  the  ravished  Bard  are  wed ! 


THE  POET. 


He  walked  beneath  the  starry  dome, 

His  heart  was  light  and  free ; 
He  saw  the  loveliness  around, 

And  all  the  great  earth's  beauty. 

'Twas  even  clear  and  holy  calm, 

A  rare  and  quiet  eve ; 
You  heard  the  sobbing  of  the  wind, 

The  little  birds  that  grieve. 

He  walked  alone,  for  loneliness 

Was  sacred  to  his  heart ; 
He  loved  to  dream  with  Nature  lone, 

He  loved  her  rustic  art. 

He  knew  the  world  had  called  him  strange, 

Had  talked  behind  his  back ; 
But  still  he  worked  and  wrought  and  worked, 

And  traced  his  winding  track. 

A  few  had  said:  "You  have  the  gifts, 

The  traits  that  make  the  bard ; 
But  you  are  poor,  the  wray  is  long 

Ere  you  are  crowned  and  starred." 

And  others  said:  "He  apes  the  throne 

Where  reign  the  immortal  few ; 
Be  still,  for  he  can  never  shine 

A  star  from  out  the  blue." 

And  then  the  poet  said :  "To  be, 

'Twere  well  to  write; 
'Twas  trying,  e'en,  that  learned  at  last 

The  beauty  of  the  night. 

"I  mark  my  route ;  who  says  me  nay? 
•  It  is  my  will,  my  taste ; 
I  walk  beneath  the  moonlight  pale, 
How  pure,  unsullied,  chaste ! 
572 


THE  POET.  573 

"1  wander  aimless.    'Neath  my  feet 

I  see  the  trampled  weed ; 
The  kine  have  trod  you,  and  their  hoofs 

Are  printed  in  the  mead. 

"Next  day  I  go,  and  there,  and  lo! 

I  see  a  prisoned  flower ; 
It  was  no  weed  !    An  ox-eye  daisy 

Within  its  prison  bower! 

"Yet,  some  had  called  you  but  a  weed, 

Thou  flower  with  fringed  crown; 
And  some  had  seen  thy  beauty  still, 

Tho'  you  were  trampled  down." 

And  so  he  traversed  evening  fields,  • 

He  saw  the  glistening  dew ; 
He  saw  the  moonlit  arch  above, 

The  stars  that  lit  the  blue. 

And  last  he  sat  him  by  a  stone, 

A  brook  was  babbling  nigh ; 
And  through  the  very  stillness  came 

An  ancient  melody. 

The  grand  old  song  of  wood  and  vale, 

The  faint  heard  cavern  stream ; 
A  song  to  him  more  felt  than  heard, 

The  song  of  poet's  dream. 

And  there  as  silent  as  the  stone, 

He  sat  in  slumberous  ease ; 
The  brook  was  gurgling.    Soft  and  low 

The  wind  sang  in  the  trees. 

In  soft  communion  there  he  sat, 

With  Nature  as  she  was ; 
He  loved  her  for  her  sake  alone. 

Her  strange  yet  natural  laws. 

The  dew  had  damped  the  gray  hillside, 

Had  bowed  the  tender  flower ; 
Had  kissed  the  poet's  paling  cheek, 

And  gemmed  the  rustic  bower. 

A  wind  was  rising  from  the  north, 

The  night  air  chilled  his  brow ; 
At  last  he  rose  and  wandered  homeward 

In  Thought's  rare  beauty  now ! 


574  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

And  late  he  gained  the  straggling  town, 
How  coarse  the  loud  laugh  seemed ; 

It  broke  from  men  upon  the  street, 
And  where  the  red  lights  gleamed. 

And  these  were  those  who  took  in  vain 
The  name  of  nature's  child, 

And  laughed,  and  told  in  coarsest  way, 
The  poet-boy  was  wild. 

It  hurt  him  sore,  but  not  in  anger, 

But  love  he  gently  said : 
"The  wreathed  pillars  stand  to-day 

For  poet's  long  since  dead. 

"They  stood  beside  my  Milton  once, 
They  did  not  name  him  bard ; 

But  Time  has  traced  the  magic  line : 
'At  last  thy  crown  is  starred!' 

"And  Time  will  raise  the  pillar  yet 
To  many  a  bard  unknown : 

The  Homers  once  the  brightest  stars, 
But  do  they  shine  alone?" 

And  soon  he  slumbered.    In  his  dreams 

He  saw  a  magic  hand 
Sculpturing  stone  to  wondrous  shape, 

With  beauty  rare  and  grand. 

And  then  a  shaft  above  his  grave, 

And  lo!  he  did  behold 
His  marble  form  upon  its  top 

Crowned  with  a  crown  of  gold ! 

So  let  him  sleep,  so  let  him  dream, 
So  let  him  paint  the  day ; 

So  let  him  wait  till  worlds  shall  crown, 
And  love  him  for  his  lay. 


OSCAR  WILDE. 

I  thank  thee,  Oscar,  Oscar  Wilde, 
I  thank  thee  once  again, 

Thy  teachings  pure  and  undefiled, 
Have  shocked  us  coarser  men. 


OSCAR   WILDE.  575 

When  Keats  was  born  a  flower  fair, 

A  flower  by  nature  trained, 
The  curse  of  fool  was  fixed  there, 

His  name  and  work  profaned. 

Man's  coarser  nature  had  but  craved 

A  rougher  kind  of  verse, 
And  bard  and  critic  madly  raved 

That  he  should  so  rehearse. 

He  died  and  daisies  veil  his  grave, 

But  dead  he  liveth  still, 
Nor  bard,  nor  critic  now  shall  rave, 

E'en  death  no  power  to  kill. 

A  half  a  century  in  advance 

This  poet  sang  and  died ; 
But  "golden  languors"  now  entrance, 

Our  tastes  have  wooed  him  bride. 

And  you,  Sir  Stranger,  tho'  less  great, 

Have  worshipped  at  his  shrine ; 
The  listening  stars  shall  pause  and  wait 

In  love  of  thee  and  thine. 

The  world  may  jar  and  loud  complain, 

Thy  motives  are  of  right ; 
No  child  of  Keats  will  ever  stain 

Thy  scutcheon  pure  and  bright. 

And,  too,  our  English  bard  so  chaste. 

Will  love  you  tho'  you  fail ; 
Perfection  yet  was  never  traced 

In  any  poet's  tale. 

Your  cause  is  right,  tho'  stranger  bard 

Need  voice  the  magic  lyre ; 
'Twas  Keats  we  loved  and  gemmed  and  starred, 

Above  the  funeral  pyre. 

Keep  on,  keep  on,  a  higher  plane 

May  show  when  you  are  gone ; 
The  gods  will  never  him  profane 

Who  placed  the  lilies  on 

The  brow  of  Coarseness  there  to  shine 
Sweet  emblems  of  a  love 


576  777 E  LADY  OF  DA RDA LE. 

That  came  from  Paradise,  a  sign 
E'en  unto  those  above. 


THE  THREE  POETS. 


FIIJST   POET. 


"And  I  will  sing  for  classic  minds, 
The  men  of  dainty  thought, 

And  they  shall  love  my  dainty  art, 
My  beauties  finely  wrought. 

ii. 
"The  stars  that  dream  in  even  time, 

The  cloud-ships  on  the  blue, 
Shall  be  my  theme,  and  calla  lilies, 

And  roses  dipt  in  dew. 


"The  world  shall  wonder  at  my  art, 
For  them  I  have  not  wrought ; 

My  dainties  come  from  Orient  mines, 
With  daintier  fairies  brought. 


"The  rarest  diamond  shall  be  mine, 
The  unfound  gem  of  earth ; 

And  every  beauty  born  or  art, 
Of  true  and  classic  worth. 


"And  then  the  trained  minds  will  see 
I've  wrought  alone  for  them ; 

And  then  they'll  give  me  for  a  crown 
A  jeweled  diadem!" 

SECOND   POET. 

I. 
"I  will  tell  them  soft  and  low 

E'en  how  sweet  it  is  to  be 
In  the  beauty  and  the  love 

Of  dear  Home's  society. 


THE  THREE  POETS.  577 

ii. 
"And  how  sweet  it  is  to  feel 

Yea,  for  every  lowly  heart, 
And  to  love  them  for  their  worth, 

Not  their  cold  and  classic  art. 


"And  the  common  run  of  men 

Understand  what  I  may  say, 
And  will  cherish  me«forever, 

Tho'  I  sang  a  simple  lay. 

IV. 

"And  the  men  of  nicest  brain, 
Who  might  scorn  the  lowly  poor, 

I  should  never  crave  their  love, 
No,  nor  pass  their  arched  door. 

v. 
"Home,  sweet  Home,  should  be  my  song, 

And  the  cot  and  lowly  hearth ; 
And  I'd  never  do  them  wrong, 

O  these  gentle  ones  of  earth!" 

THIRD   POET. 
I. 

"I  would  sing  in  daintiest  numbers 

For  the  man  of  richest  brain, 
And  as  gentle  as  his  slumbers 

Make  the  verse's  rare  refrain. 


•'I  would  paint  the  heavenly  glory 

Oft  so  dazzling  in  the  sky, 
And  would  sing  the  tender  story 

Till  the  teardrop  wet  his  eye. 

in. 
"And  my  muse  should  love  the  beauty, 

And  the  fineness  of  his  mind ; 
And  'twould  be  her  dainty  duty 
There  to  crown  him  with  his  kind. 
33 


578  THE  LADY  OF    DABDALE. 

IV. 

"Yet  you'll  list,  niy  Shelley  poet, 
Since  my  heart  as  fondly  yearns 

For  the  lowly,  let  them  know  it, 
And  the  poor  of  Robert  Burns. 


"I  will  sing  for  every  hearer 
Be  they  high  or  be  they  low, 

And  with  song  will  draw  them  nearer 
While  we  linger  here  below!" 


GENIUS.* 


i'hen  there  is  no  Genius, 

And  the  songs  I  sing 
Might  be  sung  by  any 

Is  my  questioning? 

He  t  has  said  an  angel 

Makes  the  poet  write, 
And  from  out  the  heavens 

Cometh  clothed  in  white. 

She  alone  has  touched  him 

With  the  beauties  rare, 
That  have  graced  the  rainbow 

Hung  so  'faultless  fair.' 

She  has  told  the  beauty 

Of  the  starry  skies, 
Till  the  happy  teardrops 

Sparkle  from  his  eyes. 

Yet  he  might  have  done  it 

If  she  never  came ; 
Might  have  been  a  poet 

With  a  poet's  fame. 

*  Why  should  we  still  suffer  under  the  notion  of  "genius,"  which  keeps  so  many 
poor  little  authorlings  trembling  in  question  whether  they  have  it,  or  have  only 
"talent?"— Editor's  Study,  HARPER'S. 

fLongfellow. 


GENIUS.  579 

Then,  my  dainty  critic, 

Why  so  many  dumb  ? 
Here  are  birds  and  flowers, 

Banded  bees  that  hum. 

There's  a  calla  lily, 

There's  a  bit  of  blue ; 
I,  I  cannot  help  it, 

I  must  sing  for  you ! 

Something  has  compelled  me ; 

Is  it  genius,  sir? 
Never  mind  the  answer, 

Earth's  made  lovelier ! 

I  have  built  a  rainbow 

From  a  daintier  thought ; 
Yes,  my  mind  has  made  it, 

Into  beauty  wrought. 

I  am  not  a  scholar 

Trained  in  nicest  art, 
Yet  the  songs  I  sing,  sir, 

Come  from  out  the  heart. 

Burns  was  born  a  poet 

In  the  town  of  Ayr ; 
From  his  soul  he  loved  her,* 

Made  her  faultless  fair. 

Do  you  think  her  beauty 

More  than  many  a  maid's 
Wooed  by  Scottish  Jamies 

In  the  Scottish  glades  ? 

No,  sir ;  'twas  his  genius 

Made  her  rich  and  rare ; 
And  the  jewel  lassie, 

Fair,  and  faultless  fair. 

Nature's  queen  had  crowned  him, 

Gave  the  gift  of  song ; 
Clothed  his  pen  with  genius, 

Raised  him  from  the  throng ! 

You  have  heard  the  angel ! 
Did  she  bid  you  write  ?— 
*  Highland  Mary. 


580  THE  LADY  OF  DABDALE. 

'Mid  Venitian  glories 
Paint  her  starless  night  ? 

Yours  were  (dainty  numbers: 
Venice  owes  tliee  much ; 

For  you  traced  her  beauties 
With  the  finest  touch ! 

I  shall  call  it  genius! 

You,  e'en  what  you  may ; 
Talent  cannot  do  it, 

Could  a  scholar,  pray  ? 

But,  excuse  the  harper, 
For  the  angel  said : 

"Sing  your  lowly  carol, 
Sing,  it  will  be  read!" 


POE. 


And  I  had  crowned  thee  mighty  bard, 

The  mightiest  of  our  clime, 
With  diadem  the  gods  had  starred, 

A  crown  above  thy  rhyme. 

Great  Nature  gave  thee  vastest  powers, 
And  crowned  thee  with  the  gods, 

With  Eden  scenes  and  rarest  flowers 
To  rule  with  empires'  rods. 

Another  Byron's  was  thy  might 
That  ranked  thee  with  the  great ; 

The  hour  is  gone,  and  shall  I  write : 
"A  Bard,  but  bard  of  Fate?" 

Thy  passions  whirled  in  maddest  rage, 
The  Ravens  told  thy  thought, 

Mechanic  law  has  shamed  thy  page, 
Thy  finer  beauties  wrought. 

'Tis  naturalness  that  stamps  the  verse 

As  greater  than  the  mass 
That  all  Satanic  bards  rehearse, 

That  come,  their  day,  and  pass. 


THINK.  581 

And  Tennyson,  and  Coleridge,  Keats, 

And  Shelley,  Goldsmith,  such, 
That  win  the  world  with  Eden  sweets, 

With  finer  brain  and  touch. 

The  days  are  gone  when  whirling  clouds, 

And  thunder,  lightning's  flash ; 
A  monster  form  enwrapt  in  shrouds 

Sees  mountains  fall  and  crash. 

My  Scott  has  crowned  the  mighty  past, 

But  vates  on  the  prow, 
My  Shelley  stands,  and  stands  at  last, 

A  crown  upon  his  brow. 

With  beauty,  strength  and  naturalness, 

The  world,  the  world  is  thine ; 
No  death  to  him  where  Beauty's  dress 

Has  clothed  the  potent  line. 

Thy  mathematic  art  may  prune 

The  verse  of  many  a  weed, 
But  flowers  that  blush  and  bloom  in  June 

The  choral  train  shall  lead. 

The  wildflower  twined  upon  the  wall, 

'Mid  weed  and  tangled  briar, 
More  truly  reigns  the  queen  of  all 

Than  Art  that  forced  the  lyre. 


THINK. 


Think  of  Sumner  and  of  Garrison, 
Think  of  all  the  deeds  these  men  have  done, 
Think  of  Lincoln  pure  above  the  crowd, 
See  a  Nation  by  our  Garfield  bowed, 
Emulate  their  high  example. 

Think  of  Henry  Wilson  dead  and  gone, 
Think  of  Wendell  Phillips  martyr  born, 
Think  of  Uncle  Tom  by  Mrs.  Stowe, 
When  the  Nation's  rich  red  blood  did  flow, 
Follow  in  their  hallowed  footsteps. 


582  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDALE. 

Think  of  Slavery  on  a  Southern  soil, 
Think  of  slaves  that  bared  their  arm  for  toil, 
Think  of  all  the  blood  so  nobly  shed, 
And  of  many  a  nameless  soldier  dead, 

By  their  deeds  now  choose  your  helmsman. 

Think,  my  son,  of  Whittier,  and  such  men, 
Think  the  martyred  Lincoln  here  again, 
Think  what  Garfield  represented  here, 
Who  that  cast  the  flowerets  on  his  bier, 
Vote  upon  your  sacred  honor ! 

Think !  and  choose  as  you  would  choose  a  friend, 
Let  our  Nation's  great  names  meet  and  blend, 
Think  of  Sumner,  Seward,  Garrison,  all, 
Who  were  grieved  at  noble  Lincoln's  fall, 
Think  of  these,  and  cast  your  ballot ! 


COME  BACK,  SWEET  BIRDS. 

Come  back,  come  back,  the  snow  is  gone, 

The  green  is  on  the  hills ; 
The  winds  are  soft  by  valley  streams, 

And  by  the  laughing  rills. 

The  months  have  gone  since  you  were  here, 

My  pretty  feathered  throng ; 
Come  back,  come  back,  my  little  ones, 

And  sing  your  sweetest  song. 

The  trees  are  bare  where  once  were  heard 

Your  carols  light  and  long ; 
Come  back,  come  back,  for  all  have  missed 

The  beauty  of  your  song. 

I  know  'tis  March,  and  winds  are  cold, 

The  snows  are  on  the  ground ; 
But  come  and  bring  the  lovely  spring, 

With  flowers  that  then  abound. 

Beneath  my  lowly  cottage  eaves 

The  breeze  is  warm  to-day ; 
So  come,  sweet  birds,  oh  come  and  sing 

Thy  dainty  wildwood  lay. 


COME  BACK,    SWEET   BIRDS.  683 

The  sun  is  peeping  from  the  clouds, 

The  southern  breezes  fan, 
And  soon  we'll  hear  the  oaten  notes 

From  hoofed  and  horned  Pan. 

So  come,  sweet  birds,  for  I  would  hear 

Thy  carols  soft  and  low ; 
The  snowbird  twitters  in  his  song, 

You  do  not  sing  them  so. 

For  me  the  robin's  mournful  tone 

Is  sweet,  and  very  sweet ; 
And  tenderer,  too,  it  seems  to  me 

When  echoing  woods  repeat. 

I  love  the  mockbird  and  the  jay, 

The  brown  bird  and  the  thrush ; 
The  skylark,  too,  when  rosy  morn 

Upon  the  world  does  blush. 

The  nightingale  I  love  at  eve, 

With  solemn  silence  round ; 
When  grand  old  Nature  veils  her  face, 

And  waters  run  profound. 

But  come,  sweet  birds  of  every  song, 

There's  beauty  in  you  all ; 
The  poorest  one  I  would  not  harm 

That  sings  on  the  old  gray  wall. 

So  come  with  twitter,  come  with  song, 

My  Burroughs  *  loves  your  art ; 
And  often  by  the  babbling  brook 

Your  song  has  touched  his  heart. 

And  Thompson, t  too,  will  bend  to  hear 

The  softest,  daintiest  note, 
That  ever  fell  on  a  listening  ear 

Froni  a  birdling's  happy  throat. 

So  come,  sweet  birds,  the  water  runs 

From  many  a  greening  hill ; 
The  brooklet  sings  a  tender  rune 

In  harmony  with  the  rill. 

The  god  of  winter  stands  aback, 

He  sees  his  reign  is  o'er ; 
The  scampering  rills  have  sung  his  death 

Along  the  babbling  shore. 
*John  Burroughs.    fMaurlce  Thompson. 


584  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

So  come,  come,  come !    The  blustering  March 
Will  soon  wear  April's  crown ; 

And  even  now  the  hillside  snows 
In  streams  are  tumbling  down. 

And  there's  a  patch  of  loveliest  green, 

And  down  beside  the  brook 
A  pussy-willow  decks  the  scene ; 

O  come,  sweet  birds,  and  look ! 

Come  home,  come  home!  (Why  longer  wait?) 

And  I  will  give  to  thee 
A  lady-bird  to  be  thy  mate 

Of  rich  and  rarest  beauty ! 

And  soon  a  distant  bird  note  came, 

And  soon  another  sweet, 
Till  heaven's  blue  an  ocean  seemed 

With  many  a  baby  fleet. 

And  last  the  land  was  full  of  birds, 

Their  music  .filled  the  air; 
Till  here  they  seemed,  till  there  they  seemed, 

And  here  and  everywhere. 

And  each  one  had  his  chosen  mate, 

And  all  the  land  was  sweet ; 
And  every  hill  and  valley  fair, 

Their  music  did  repeat ! 


HER    BABY'S  CHAIN. 


DEDICATION. 

1. 

To  you  I  dedicate  my  song, 
O  mother,  wife,  and  bride ; 

For  you  have  made  me  what  I  am, 
And  told  the  world  beside. 

2. 
Since  but  for  thee  this  little  Book 

Had  never,  no  !  been  known ; 
So,  let  me  thank  thee  from  the  heart, 

If  such  you  care  to  own. 


HER   BABY'S   CHALV.  385 

3. 
And  may  thy  life  be  sweet  and  fair, 

And  move  in  joyous  train, 
And  never,  never  any  hand 

Dare  take  thy  baby's  chain ! 


I  had  led  her  to  the  altar 

When  the  spring  was  blooming  fair, 
And  the  single  rose  that  graced  her 

Was  the  one  within  her  hair. 

I  had  wooed  and  won  her  gently 
Thro'  the  summer  and  the  spring, 

And  our  hearts  were  with  the  beauty, 
And  the  bird  upon  the  wing. 

With  the  happy  bird  of  summer, 
And  the  bird  within  his  cage, 

And  the  book  we  opened  gladly, 
Softly  turning  page  by  page. 

I  had  known  her  thro'  the  winter 
When  the  snow  was  soft  and  white, 

And  our  hearts  had  grown  together 
As  a  softer  light  to  light. 

And  we  cared  for  one  |another 
More  and  more  as  fell  the  time, 

Till  our  hearts  had  beat  together 
In  a  soft  melodious  chime. 

We  had  wandered  by  the  brooklet 
Tumbling  down  among  the  hills ; 

We  had  boated  on  the  river 
That  had  sung  its  solemn  trills. 

And,  Green  Mountain,  too,  we  clambered 
With  its  top  among  the  clouds, 

Looking  like  a  giant  monster 
In  its  mist  and  vapory  shrouds. 

And  below  us  ran  the  river, 

Sugar  River  named  for  aye ; 
For  the  grand  and  stately  maples 

Had  in  beauty  graced  its  way. 

And  Ascutney  in  the  distance 
Reared  so  grandly  'neath  the  skies, 


58G  THE  LADY  OF  UARDALE. 

That  it  seemed  a  far  way  castle 
In  the  magic  of  our  eyes. 

Then  we  thought  how  artist  Miller 
Had  enshrined  its  beauty  rare, 

Till  it  seemed  upon  the  canvass 
As  'twere  melting  into  air. 

But  my  artist,  he  was  sadder 
Than  the  bard  that  sings  his  song ; 

So  the  world  has  never  known  him, 
And  they  do  him  bitter  wrong. 

But  for  aye  the  world  disown  thee, 
And  shall  buy  the  rich  man's  daub, 

Sure  they  cannot,  no,  and  never, 
Of  thine  inward  blessings  rob. 

For,  like  me,  a  dainty  beauty 
Shines  for  you  and  you  alone ; 

And  the  world  for  aye  disown  us, 
There's  a  beauty  all  our  own. 

Then  again  we  thought  and  pondered 
How  the  town  had  seen  our  star;* 

But  'tis  shining  in  the  zenith 
O'er  a  city  faint  and  far. 

She  has  left  us  for  the  honors 
That  have  come  to  high  renown ; 

And  'twere  not  for  her  alone,  sir, 
Who,  I  pray,  had  known  our  town  ? 

Burns  it  was  that  gave  to  Ayrshire 
E'en  a  poet's  world-wide  fame ; 

Who  that  loves  the  Bard  of  Aiton 
Sheds  no  teardrop  at  the  name ! 

Then  we  wandered  thro'  the  valley 
With  the  lily  on  the  stream, 

And  the  waters  singing  sweetly 
Seemed  the  song  within  our  dream. 

Last,  when  July  suns  wrere  tanning 
Every  schoolboy's  rounded  face, 

Did  I  lead  her  to  the  altar, 
And  her  happy  love  did  trace. 
*Con  stance  Fenimore  Woolson. 


HER  BABY'S  CHAIN.  5S7 

Then,  at  last,  the  youthful  pastor  * 

Said  that  she  and  I  were  one, 
And  I  blessed  him,  and  I  told  him, 

Yes,  the  Father's  will  be  done. 

She  was  clothed  in  spotless  raiments, 

White  as  snow  on  wintry  wold ; 
And  the  ring  was  on  her  finger, 

Wedding  ring  of  yellow  gold. 

Then  I  thought,  O  how  confiding 

Is  my  rosy  bride  in  me ; 
And  I  felt  forever,  ever, 

Will  I  be  the  world  to  thee. 

Months  went  by,  and  springs,  and  winters ; 

Love  had  never  lost  his  crown; 
And  could  see,  our  friends  and  neighbors, 

We  were  happiest  in  the  town. 

Then  how  sweet,  and  then  how  holy, 

Did  this  mother  seem  to  me, 
When  beside  the  little  cradle 

Did  she  sing  so  ho-ly,  ho-ly ! 

Time  grew  on,  and  more  united 

By  the  link  unconscious  there, 
Days  sailed  by  in  ships  of  beauty, 

Till  our  home  a  seraph  air. 

Then  her  dittty,  "sleep,  my  baby, 

Sleep  in  peace  and  sleep  in  joy ; 
Thou  the  image  of  thy  father, 

And  thy  mother's  pattern  boy." 

Thus  I  often  heard  her  singing, 

Singing  songs  from  out  the  heart, 
Little  tender  baby  carols, 

Unadorned  of  any  art. 

Time  was  coming,  time  was  going, 

Woes  and  joys  were  in  the  train ; 
But  from  out  a  meagre  coffer 

We  had  bought  the  baby's  chain. 

Round  his  neck  it  shone  in  beauty, 

Like  a  rainbow's  line  of  gold, 
And  he  bloomed  our  household  flower 

Like  the  flowerets  on  the  wold. 
*Rev.  Chas.  A.  Piddock. 


588  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

But,  ah,  Time !  thou  hast  the  bitter 
E'en  as  well  as  every  sweet, 

And  the  teardrops  on  the  eyelid 
Fell  with  words  you  did  repeat. 

"Take  the  gold  watch  that  you  gave  her, 
And  your  own  watch  with  it  place, 

And  the  chains  so  bright  and  golden, — 
Never  heed  the  pallid  face. 

"She  will  weep ;  but  to  thy  duty, 
Let  them  have  thy  yellow  gold ; 

'Nothing  venture,  nothing  have,'  sir; 
He  who'd  win  must  e'er  be  bold. 

"There,  sir,  you  have  left  her  weeping 
Heed  her  sorrow,  heed  her  pain ; 

It  will  break  her  heart,  O  Husband! — 
You  must  take  the  baby's  chain! 

"You  are  trembling  as  you  take  it, 
And  the  tears  have  crossed  your  cheek ; 

'Big  events  are  on  the  gale,'  sir, — 
Yours  a  grief  that  cannot  speak. 

"She  the  bride,  the  wife,  the  mother, — 
You  have  broke  her  happy  heart ; 

So  you  do  not,  do  not  wonder 
That  the  teardrops  there  may  start. 

"There ;  with  these  thine  obligations 
Have  at  last,  at  last  been  met, 

And  the  joy  that  cometh  after 
Dries  the  eye  that  now  is  wet." 

And,  O  God!  I  took  them  from  her, 
Took  them  with  a  heavy  brain ; 

But  her  tears,  they  ran  like  water, 
When  I  took  her  baby's  chain ! 


SONNETS. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

When  first  you  saw  me  in  my  cradle  lie, 
And  knew  that  I  was  all  the  world  to  thee, 
This  side  the  silent,  silent,  measureless  Sea, 

And  saw  the  beauty  of  my  soft  blue  eye, 

O  did  you  feel  your  baby  boy  might  die, 
And  so  into  the  great  years  yet  to  be 
Look  all  in  vain  for  heaven's  rainbowed  beauty 

With  never  holiest  thought  to  reason  why? 

But,  ah,  my  Mother !  unseen  hands  have  spared, 
Until  1  stand  to-day  in  manhood's  prime, 

Thanking  thee  now  that  thou  hast  gently  cared 
For  me  thro'  all  the  shifting  years  of  time, 

Till  I  may  lay  with  reverence  at  thy  feet, 

My  Book  of  Song  that  seemed  so  rare  and  sweet ! 


TO  MY  BOOK. 

O  wilt  thou  buckle  on  thine  armor  bright, 

With  tufted  helm  and  shield  of  glittering  pearl, 

Achilles-like  thy  polished  javelin  hurl, 
Against  the  Hectors  or  the  plumdd  knight,* 
With  all  the  world  to  watch  you  in  the  fight, 

A  redcross  knight  thy  banner  brave  unfurl, 

And  meet  them  with  the  valor  of  the  Earlt 
Who  smote  Napoleon  in  his  British  might? 

Be  brave.    The  Dantes,  Chaucers,  once  unknown ; 

The  Ariostos,  and  Sorrento's  Bard  ;J 
Yet  they  have  dared  the  madly  rushing  Rhone, 

And  they  have  vanquished  th'  Taine-knights  diamond  starred. 
*Mars.    fThe  Duke  of  Wellington.    JTasso. 


>90  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAEDA  LE. 

So,  go  thou  forth  and  dare  the  unwon  field, 
For  he's  a  coward  e'er  the  fight  shall  yield ! 


TO  MY  FATHER 

You  watched  me  with  a  father's  doting  care, 
Till  Death  came  softly,  saying:  "Come  with  me!" 
And  then  you  left  us  in  his  company, 

And  went  away  to  realms  we  deem  more  fair, 

Undreaming  in  thy  last  great  dreaming  where 
The  bark  you  left  upon  a  trackless  sea, 
Would  sail.    But  thanks  to  her,  and  thanks  to  thee, 

She  sails  unwrecked  towards  havens  divine  and  rare ! 

And  yet  you  had  no  hint  ere  thy  demise, 
That  Poesy  sweet  would  lure  the  ship  along, 

And  that  a  tranced  poet's  sad  blue  eyes 
Would  leap  in  beauty  at  a  poet's  song ; 

And  that  himself  would  touch  the  dainty  wires 

On  golden  lutes  and  lowly  sounding  lyres! 


TO  S.  E.  W. 

The  roses  bloomed  upon  thy  cheek,  and  vied 
With  reddest  roses  in  thy  hair,  when  I 
Did  tease  thee  to  the  altar,  and  the  sky 

Did  bend  propitious  o'er  the  great  world  wide, 

And  smiled  upon  you  as  the  poet's  bride, 
With  summer  Phoebus'  bright  unclouded  eye 
Our  wedded  love's  Hymeneal  torch  on  high, 

With  all  surrounding  heaven  in  beauty  dyed. 

But  not  till  time,  sweet  bride,  had  named  thee  mine, 
Did  winged  Muses  touch  my  songless  heart, 

And  teach  me  unsung  songs  are  most  divine,* 
Because  so  true,  and  unalloyed  of  art, 

And  are  by  Echo's  subtle  symphonies 

Repeated  soft  to  all  the  listening  skies. 


AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LONGFELLOW. 

O  Laureate  Bardt  that  painted  lilies  fair, 
And  added  tints  to  rainbow's  gaudy  dyes, 
And  e'en  more  lovely  made  the  starlit  skies, 

*"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard  are  sweeter."  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn . 
tWho  threw  a  perfume  on  the  violet.— Shakespeare. 


SONNETS.  591 

Adding  the  daintiest  hues  to  flowerets  rare, 
Till  all  thy  rivals  in  a  divine  despair, 

Laid  down  their  poet  pens,  with  wondering  eyes, 

As  if  some  god,  escaped  from  Paradise, 
Had  brought  the  beauty  angels  tell  of  there ; 

O  wilt  thou  tell  me  from  that  silent  Land, 

If  one  may  try  the  harp  you  loved  so  well, 
And  you  yourself  will  guide  with  unseen  hand, 

His  faltering  fingers,  till  there  gently  swell 
The  hushed  notes  so  silent  e'en  too  long, 
Till  all  thy  Harp  burst  into  rapturous  Song? 


TO  Mi~  SOX,  SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

My  blue-eyed  Boy !  the  song  I  sing  to  thee, 
Comes  babbling  from  my  heart  like  meadow  brook, 
While  bright  before  me  like  an  open  book, 

Thy  young  sweet  life  is  spread  in  all  its  beauty ; 

And  what  I  read  is  only  known  to  me, 
Thy  doting  father,  who  alone  may  look, 
And  like  a  shepherd  bent  upon  his  crook, 

May  paint  thy  ripened  beauties  yet  to  be. 

While  I  have  touched  my  harp  old  Nature  grand, 

Has  made  a  poem  sweeter,  finer  far 
Than  I  have  wrought,  and  traced  with  Angelo  hand 

Thy  rounded  beauties,  till  a  risen  star, 
You  shine  Hesperian  fair  upon  our  love, 
Joining  our  heaven  with  the  Heaven  above. 


TO  THE  MOXADXOCK  MILLS. 

A  Cotton  Factory  where  most  of  the  author's  poetic  labors  have  been  performed, 
and  where  the  greater  part  of  his  Sonnets  were  composed. 

My  Alma  Mater  \  here  a  country  bard 
Has  dared  to  strike  the  Harp  of  Tasso,  Burns, 
To  walk  with  Hebe  'mid  the  tangled  ferns ; 

To  court  Diana  when  the  skies  were  starred ; 

To  bend  the  bow  of  Mars,  a  full  cloth  yard ; 
To  join  the  waltz  with  Psyche  in  dainty  turns ; 
To  watch  with  Clio  Scotia's  winging  herns,— 

With  Shelley  visit  Hunt  once  prison-barred. 


592  THE  LADY  OF  DA  ED  ALE. 

For  Love  has  led,  like  Arethusa  fair, 
Beneath  the  wave,  along  the  storied  Nile, 

Thro'  Egypt,  Homer's  Troy,  and  tearwet  Ayr ; 
To  Roman  ruins,  Greece's  mouldering  pile, 

To  every  storied  land,  where  Muses  nine, 

Have  made  the  ruined  splendors  more  divine ! 


TO  MY  CLASSIC  FRIENDS, 
\Vlio  ask  me  why  I  insert  so  many  simple  poems  inmy  book. 

Since  I  would  sing  my  Country's  songs,  and  be 
A  welcome  guest  in  every  Home.    Where  Art 
Has  sway.    Where  whispered  love  shall  touch  the  heart 

Where  Childhood  laughs.    And  home's  society 

Is  natural,  holy ;  unalloyed  and  free ; 
Where  news-boy  kings  shall  throng  the  crowded  mart ; 
Where  Pity's  tear  in  lowliest  hut  may  start ; 

And  yet  my  lady's  Vase*  in  matchless  beauty ! 

And,  too,  where  diamond  rare  in  twined  gold, 
Winning  the  finest  mine  with  beauties  wrought 

From  out  the  skilled  brain.    And  loving  old 
Historic  art,  by  crowned  critic  brought 

From  climes  where  Titans  and  the  Raphaels  reigned, 

"Beyond  the  bulk  of  Death,"  still  unprofaned. 


TO  SUGAR  RIVER. 

Thou  art  no  Doon  nor  Lugar,  gentle  stream ; 

No  Afton,  nor  a  sweetly  winding  Ayr ; 

No  classic  Darmbe  in  a  poet  rare; 
No  maddened  Rhone  'neath  foreign  skies  to  gleam ; 
Thou  art  no  Tweed  thro'  Scottish  braes  to  dream ; 

No  Esk  nor  Dee  in  song  to  Scotia's  fair  ; 

No  Avon  jealous  of  thy  prestige  there, 
But  unto  me  thy  beauties  sweeter  seem. 

For,  winding  'mong  the  valley's  and  the  hills, 
To  Windsor's  old  Ascutney,  grim  and  grand, 

Thy  song  is  sweet,  while  prisoned  in  the  Mills,  t 
Thej'l  lure  me  soft  to  many  a  foreign  land; 

Whispering:  "Like  Prisoner  of  Chillon  you  may  go, 

And  visit  classic  climes  your  Muse  may  know !" 
''Mrs.  Morgan's  $15,000  Vase.    fMonadnock  Mills.    JMuses. 


THE  FOUE  AH  TS,— GENIUS.  593 

TO  THE  WORLD'S  GREAT  POETS. 
"There  is  always  room  at  the  top."— Daniel  Webster. 

The  Poet*  of  the  Gods  has  told  us  late, 

The  Scroll  is  closed  by  great  Apollo's  hand ; 

The  last  great  Bard  of  Song  has  graced  the  land, 
And  'tis  in  vain  the  people  watch  and  wait ; 
For  he  t  has  closed  for  aye  the  golden  Gate 

Out  which  the  poets  came  with  numbers  grand, 

And  as  the  touch  of  some  enchanted  wand, 
Won  all  the  peopled  world  with  Genius  great! 

But,  na'theless,  I'd  woo  my  Harp  alone, 
And  love  it  tho'  the  world  should  never  hear ; 

But  should  they  like  it  for  its  rural  tone, 
And  soft  incline  to  me  the  raptured  ear, 

O  may  I  tell,  'so  long  as  flowers  have  birth, 

The  true-born  Poets,  too,  will  grace  the  earth!' 


TO  THE  SAGE  OF  CHARLESTOWN.  \ 

Thy  builded  boot  lias  gone  to  Mexico, 

The  Great  Pacific  Slope,  and  old  Japan, 

Australia,  too,  if  not  the  far  Soudan ; 
And  white-haired  Sage !  thy  brain-built  boot  may  go 
Like  some  wrought  poem  that  the  world  may  know 

A  geologic  Antiquarian, 

A  three-score  sage,  and  rapt  Smithsonian, 
Loves  yet  to  delve  in  mysteries  here  below. 

A  brick  from  structure  in  Evangeline, 
With  fossils,  too,  and  minerals  quaint  and  rare, 

Thy  shelf  is  deckt.    Thy  Library,  too,  is  fine ; 
And  old  New  Hampshire  boasts  not  otherwhere 

Savant  more  grand  in  Nature's  lowliest  art, 

Such  unaffected  ways,  and  modest  heart. 


THE  FOUR  ARTS,— GENIUS! 

POETRY. 
A  Piece  of  Marble. 

With  starlight  brow  he  came.    His  eye  was  blue : 

His  voice  was  sweet  to  all  the  listening  land ; 

*John  Keats.    t  Phoebus  Apollo.    {John  H.  Locke. 


594  THE  LAJ)7  OF  DA  RDALE. 

They  led  him  from  the  skies  with  jeweled  hand, 
While  on  his  ringlets  clung  the  heavenly  dew, 
In  sparkling  beauty.    When  he  came  in  view, 
Adonis  fair  he  seemed.    With  magic  wand 
He  touched  the  jagged  marble ;  then,  so  grand, 
The  unhewn  stone  to  finest  poem  grew ! 

The  world  is  wondering  yet !    The  shapeless  stone 
His  art  had  touched  to  life,  and  Memnon-like, 

Tou  yet  may  hear  its  sweet  and  ravishing  tone, 
When  morning  Sol  upon  the  shaft  does  strike ; 

And  those  that  hear  the  unsung  songs  of  earth 

Will  say  it  sings:  "A  Poet  gave  me  birth!" 


MUSIC. 
A  Piece  oj  Marble. 

"O  sweet  Musician  from  the  voiceless  vale, 
Heaven  has  made  you  what  you  are ;  so  sing 
To  earth  from  out  the  diamond  blue,  and  bring 

Thy  melodies  softer  than  ^Eolian  gale, 

To  music-loving  lands,  and  all  will  hail 
Thee  Heaven-born !"    The  sound  of  angel  wing, 
And  all  the  earth  and  skies  with  song  did  ring, — 

Ionian  soft  the  listeners  did  assail. 

It  touched  the  stone.    Like  Bride  *  in  Avon's  art, 
It  stood  a  living  statue !    Music  sweet, 

Came  soft  from  marble's  animated  heart, 
And,  Orpheus-like,  its  melodies  did  repeat, 

Till  all  the  land  the  sweet  Musician  led, 

Till  all  the  land  would  weep  if  he  were  dead ! 


SCULPTURE. 
A  Piece  of  Marble. ' 

Like  Baby  Bell  from  Paradise  he  came ; 

A  Wondersmith  of  old  historic  Art ; 

A  sculptor's  love  within  his  boastless  heart ; 
Already  crowned  with  heaven's  bright  crown  of  Fame ; 
*Paulina  in  Winter's  Tale,  last  scene. 


THE  FOUR  ARTS.— GENIUS.  595 

His  Genius  put  the  taunting  world  to  shame ; 

They  thought  him  one  from  out  the  crowded  mart, 
'  Where  many  more.    But  did  the  critics  start 
When  every  lettered  clime  had  told  his  name  ? 

For  he  had  ta'en  the  stone ;  with  fashion  rare, 

In  Guido-art,  and  more,  his  hand  wrought, 
Till  Belvedere*  the  marble  ('faultless  fair') 

To  Elgin-liket  perfection  last  was  brought, 
For  Genius  from  that  unreplying  Land, 
Had  shaped  the  shapeless  marble  'neath  his  hand ! 


PAINTING. 
A  Piece  of  Marble. 

Raphael!  thou  hast  ta'en  the  rainbow  from  the  sky ; 

Rapt  Homer  drew  her  poetry  down ;  and  too, 

Beethoven  all  her  music  rare.    And  you, 
Crowned  Angelo,  with  Sculpture,  tranced  your  eyes : 
But  Painter !  in  this  marble  beauty  lies, 

Like  argent  stars  in  heaven's  unpainted  blue ; 

Upon  the  canvas  you  can  paint  it  true, 
With  poet-brush  dipt  in  cerulian  dyes  ! 

And  faintly  the  unpainted  marble  breathed, 
Till  on  the  canvas  bright,  like  crowned  god, 

It  stood  in  beauty,  and  was  daintily  wreathed 
With  painted  crown.    A  gently  flowered  rod 

Was  in  his  hand,  a  sceptre  bright  with  gold 

That  sways  to-day  in  galleries  grim  and  cold. 


A  PIECE  OF  MARBLE. 
My  Dt  duct  ion. 

A  piece  of  shapeless  marble,  speechless,  dead ! 

It  lay  unnoticed.    Dirt  had  soiled  its  white. 

The  people  passed  it  by.  'Twas  fameless  !  Night 
Had  come  and  gone.  The  rounded  Queen  had  shed 
Her  untold  beauty  on  its  form.  The  red 

Hot  rays  of  Phoebus  touched  it;  but  his  light 

Was  vain.    Till  Genius,  conscious  of  her  might, 
Touched  stone  to  beauty,  as  a  bride  that's  wed  ! 

*Statue  of  Apollo  In  the  Belvedere  of  the  Vatican,  Rome*. 
tThe  Elgin  Marbles  broughtt  from  Greece  by  1  homas,  seventh  Earl  of  El^in. 


THE  LADT  OF  DARDALE. 

The  stone  became  an  'animated  bust ;' 
And  Mennon-like,  the  voiced  music  came ; 

Genius  had  raised  it  from  the  soulless  dust ; 
And  now,  Apollo  Bevere,  its  fame 

Had  gone  immortal.    Genius  rare,  alone, 

Had  wed  the  Four  Arts  in  the  unconscious  stone! 


ELGIN  MARBLES. 

THEEE  SONNETS, 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead.— Keats, 


O  ancient  sculptures,  dewy  from  the  Past, 

The  pride  of  Athens'  proud  Acropolis, 

Thy  lips  yet  tender  with  an  angel's  kiss, 
More  beauty  erst  than  all  the  world  thou  hast ; 
So  let  a  poet  one  more  floweret  cast 

Where  heaped-up  roses  crowd  the  way,  I  wis; 

Where  charmed  sculptor  Beauty's  rarest  bliss 
Has  left,  in  marble  loveliness  to  last  I 

Revered  Greece !  the  great  worshiping  Earl, 
O'erswayed  by  love,  has  torn  thy  beauties  down ; 

The  carved  brow,  the  eye,  the  marble  curl, 
The  chiseled  nose,  the  ear,  the  stone-wrought  crown  ;- 

The  breathed  form,  as  pure  as  sea-born  shell, 

No  more  shall  grace  thy  ruined  Citadel. 

ii. 
•The  loveliness  which  once  he  made  more  lovley"— Shelley. 

O  Greece !  O  once  proud  Buildings*  of  the  land ! 

O  violet-  crowned  City  of  the  earth  ! 

'Twas  Phidias'  hand  that  gave  thy  statues  birth, 
Adorning  Temple  of  Minerva  grand, 
With  stone-wrought  fancies.    Pure.    With  magic  hand, 

The  Parthenon  immortalized.    No  dearth 

Of  carved  loveliness.    Of  unnamed  worth 
They  trance.    Imperishable  while  earth  shall  stand  ! 
*The  Parthenon,  temple  of  Minerva,  etc.,  Athens. 


ELGIN  MARBLES.  597 

But  Albion's  love-led  Earl  has  ta'en  them  far; 

Yet  you  may  thank  him,  Athens !    But  for  him 
Tlve  miscreants  of  War  in  chariot  car, 

Had  ridden  o'er  them !  Old  war  history,  dim, 
Yet  tells  how  War  and  Battle's  maddened  heart 
Have  laid  in  dust  the  sculptor's  noblest  Art!* 

in. 

"God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gift*."— Milton, 

And  yet,  O  Land  of  Art,  the  glory's  thine  ! 

They  cannot  take  it  from  thee.    When  they  gaze 

In  critic- wonder,  Time;  "In  other  days 
They  were  the  glory  of  a  Grecian  shrine ; 
The  skill  of  Phidas  made  them  live,  divine ; 

His  Theseus  seemed  of  life.    Ilissus  pays 

The  highest  fee  to  Art.    And  Neptune's  bays 
Immortal  shine  with  those  of  Proserpine. 

And  e'en  in  fragments,  have  thy  marbles  won 

The  poet's  everlasting  love ;  and  made 
Sweet  Iris  sweeter  far.    Hyperion 

With  sculptured  horses.    And  rare  Ceres  'rayed 
With  marble's  possible  loveliness.    But, Land  !t 
The  world  reveres  hisj  unprofanSd  hand." 
*Dcstroyed  by  the  Persians.    fGreece,    Phidas. 


THE  CROWN. 

TO  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON, 

A  sonnet. 

• 

O  dainty  Bard  anear  thine  English  throne  I 
O  may  I  dare  to  dedicate  to  thee 
My  simple  song  of  unadorned  beauty, 
And  in  a  sonnet  tell  to  thee  alone 
How  much  I  love  thy  poetry's  quiet  tone  ? 
For  I  may  sometime  cross  the  great  wide  sea ; 
And  I  would  not  be  all  unknown.    For  me, 
The  world  has  not  a  wish.    But  seeds  are  sown. 

And  should  you  deign  to  read,  O  may  my  book 
Bring  back  the  days  when  even  you,  unknown, 

Wert  wandering  o'er  the  hilltops  bare  and  brown, 
And  only  flowerets  by  some  wayside  brook, 
Heard  all  the  beauty  of  thy  harpstrings'  tone, 
Ere  all  the  world  had  placed  the  matchless  Crown  I 


I  sang  of  January  clothed  in  white, 

And  in  my  song  these  numbers  came: 
"O  fair  white  Month  in  glittering  shrouds  of  snow, 

Wilt  add  one  laurel  to  my  name  ? 
For  thou  art  clad  in  raiments  of  the  storm 

That  draped  the  earth  from  Northern  skies, 
And  in  thy  purest  habit,  still  unflect, 

Thou  sendst  a  rhythm  unto  mine  eyes. 

ii. 
"And  so,  perchance,  thou  hast  the  magic  wand 

To  add  one  bay-leaf  to  my  lyre ; 
For  in  my  garments  pure,  of  heaven  white, 

You  elevate  my  low  desire, 
And  make  me  feel  thou  art  an  angel  clad 

With  lowly  whiteness  from  the  Throne 
Where  poets  find  their  well  deserved  crowns, 

And  win  the  world  with  harp  alone." 
598 


THE  CROWX.  599 

in. 
The  morn  was  bright.    And  shone  the  glad  new  year ; 

The  wold  was  hid  beneath  the  snow ; 
The  mountains  stood  like  battlements  afar; 

The  shrouded  brook  was  singing  low, 
As  some  sweet  song  from  out  a  hidden  harp 

Was  rising  to  a  fairer  world  ;— 
But  hush !    Be  still,  O  wildly  winged  Thought, 

'Twas  naught  but  lowly  brook  that  purled ! 

IV. 

But  grew  the  month,  the  chilly  day  by  day ; 

The  sun  had  risen,  set  again, 
Had  risen  cold  and  set  in  western  skies, 

And  still  the  snow  was  on  the  plain, 
And  hid  the  ice-crown  on  the  babbling  brook, 

And  hid  the  path  that  crossed  the  wold ; 
For  boreal  storms  from  shrouded  Norland  skies, 

Had  drowsed  the  new  year  in  the  cold. 

v. 

And  not  one  spray  the  poet  found,  and  last, 

The  pale  new  month  was  dead  in  snow ; 
But  while  he. lay  in  whitcd  shrouds  there  came 

A  ritual  soft,  and  tenderly  low, 
From  pine-trees,  and  the  mountains  clad  in  white, 

From  smothered  brooklets,  faint  and  far ; 
And  all  the  hills,  the  meadows,  and  the  wold, 

For  'gan  there  sets  a  new-year  star. 

VI. 

Once  more  the  poet  strives.    "O  new-born  month, 

The  second  in  the  glad  new  year, 
White  February !  list  my  lowly  plea ; 

I  seek  the  laurel  once  so  dear 
To  all  the  world,  and  every  poet's  heart ; 

Wilt  give  it  me  ?    I'll  honor  thee, 
And  from  my  trained  voice  and  harp  shall  come 

A  more  than  earthly  melody ! 

VII. 

"Thy  father-month  I  sought,  and  all  in  vain ; 

So  you,  pure  month,  wilt  list  my  song 
Enborn  within  the  heart,  unsullied,  fair ; 

It  shall  not  be  nor  sad  nor  overlong; 
For  you  shall  shape  your  voice  to  lowly  speech, 

While  I  a  listener  soft  wilt  be, 
And  with  divine  attention,  hear  thy  word, 

Enwon  to  holy  symphony. 


600  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAE  DALE. 

VIII. 

"I  seek  as  many  a  bard  before,  the  crown 

Of  earthly  immortality,  and  wilt  say 
My  worth,  my  lowly  value  here  below? 

For  long  I  sought  the  'chanted  way, 
That  leads  to  fair  Parnassus  in  the  skies ; 

But  never  a  one  has  told  me  truly : 
'O  wayworn  wanderer,  traveling  toward  the  sun, 

Thy  task-work  thou  hast  done  e'en  duly. 

IX. 

'But  time  alone  can  quell  the  critic  tongue, 

If  Muses  fair  have  crowned  you  Bard!' " 
And  so,  dear  month,  with  winding-sheet  of  snow 

Awaiting  thy  demise,  the  starred, 
The  crowned,  must  wait  with  dear  impatient  Love, 

Till  happy  chance  shall  cross  the  land, 
And  with  a  beauty  dazzling  as  the  sun, 

Hold  poet's  wreath  within  her  hand. 

x. 

"Too  young  I  am  within  the  whitened  year 

To  tell  thy  tale  that  time  may  bring ; 
But  listen,  like  the  snowbird  caroling  there, 

O  thou  shalt  pipe  and  thou  shalt  sing!" 
And  in  his  waiting  winding-sheet  he  lay 

In  palest  death,  with  no  green  leaf, 
Nor  sound  of  brook,  nor  hidden  cavern  stream, 

To  wake  in  love's  symphonious  grief. 

XI. 

The  poet  sighed.    And  two  white  months  had  gone, 

And  still  the  crown  had  won  no  spray; 
But  yet  he  sang  his  songs  nor  ever  thought 

That  he  was  winning  with  his  lay 
The  great  wide  earth ;  for  christain-like  he  wrought 

Unflattered  in  his  heart  or  mind, 
And  crowned  already,  he  nor  knew  nor  felt 

His  fame  was  breathing  on  the  wind. 

XII. 

And  so,  O  March !  the  third  in  snowy  train, 

He  does  implore  thee  lend  him  aid, 
And  cross  his  brow  with  laurels  fresh  as  dew, 

The  wreath  entwined  by  some  fair  maid, 
Of  heaven  born,  a  star  from  out  the  skies 

Where  Helos,  bathed  in  dazzling  blue, 
Is  lost  among  the  mists  of  heaven  fair, 

Unsullied,  Poet,  canopying  you ! 


THE  CROWN.  601 

XIII. 

Thou  month  of  wildering  winds,  distorted  storms, 

And  roaring  blasts  in  domfid  skies, 
Wilt  teach  him  that  the  art  is  his,  e'en  now, 

To  win  the  lowly  and  the  wise 
With  glittering  harp ;  for  Nature,  she  has  strung  it, 

And  fingers  once  among  the  the  strings, 
Unconscious  shalt  thou  pipe  and  play,  and  teach 

At  last  of  heaven's  diviner  things. 

XIV. 

Thou  hast  no  pipe,  but  still  your  mind  will  'pipe 

To  all  sweet  sounds  of  heaven  and  earth ; 
For  thou'lt  be  lost  amid  the  wildered  strings, 

And  feel  divinity  in  thy  birth ; 
For  white  Imagination  bringeth  down 

The  wondrous  ditties  of  the  skies, 
And  thralls  the  poet  till  all  beauties  known, 

Seem  shining  from  his  raptured  eyes.  * 


Farewell,  wild  March !  with  patches  here  and  there 

Of  Nature's  peeping  green ;  for  warm 
Sweet  skies,  with  tepid  gales  from  southern  lands, 

Had  won  in  battle  with  the  storm, 
And  partial  there  prevailed,  till  sunny  slopes 

Disclosed,  in  patches,  naked  green ; 
And  sometimes,  hid  beneath  a  sheltering  rock, 

A  little  timid  bud  was  seen. 

XVI. 

And  waned  time ;  the  days  were  fleeting  fast, 

The  months  lay  buried  in  the  snow ; 
The  days  had  made  the  weeks,  the  weeks  the  months, 

And  little  breezes,  babbling  low, 
In  hidden  nooks,  and  wildered  corners  dark, 

Were  warming  with  the  sunnier  days ; 
But  yet  the  seeker,  like  a  caroled  wild-bird, 

Unconscious  piped  melodious  lays. 

XVII. 

And  last,  the  white  months  went  away,  and  April 

Burst  soft  from  eastern  happy  clouds, 
With  larger  spots  of  green,  and  warmer  skies, 

With  here  and  there  the  hills  in  shrouds 
Of  unwon  snow;  and,  too,  the  darkened  valleys, 

Where  Phoebus  fair  had  fought  in  vain ; 
But  over  all,  as  born  in  farther  climes, 

There  came  a  poet's  matchless  strain. 


602  THE  LA  D  Y  OF  D  All  DA  L  E. 

XVIII. 

And  all  the  world  was  glad  to  hear.    But  he 

Unconscious  sang  of  all  their  praise ; 
But  thinking,  na'theless,  that  golden  times 

Would  fall  to  win  them  with  his  lays. 
lie  was  so  honest  that  he  could  not  dream 

A  living  one  had  cared  to  know 
That  he  had  sung  the  world's  sweet  songs,  and  won 

Them  with  his  melody  soft  and  low. 


And  thus,  fresh  April,  by  the  Romans  named 

Aprilis,  does  he  call  on  thee ; 
And  you  can  hear  him  piping  down  the  valley ; 

His  songs  are  sombre  like  the  sea ; 
His  soul  has  shaped  the  untaught  melody ; 

His  lays  have  won  the  snowclad  hills ; 
He  sings  as  sings  the  wrildbird  in  his  song, 

As  merry  as  the  babbling  rills. 


And:  "April,  month  of  opening  buds,  wilt  list 

A  shepherd's  oaten  pipe  ?    They  say, 
My  friends,  that  I  am  favored  by  the  Nine  ; 

And  yet  in  vain  I  sing  my  lay." 
"Dear  friend,  you  see  the  birds  of  every  hue  ; 

The  jagged  fence  they  make  their  throne, 
And  all  unasked,  they  pipe  to  every  bush, 

To  passers-by,  in  lusty  tone. 

XXI. 

"They  send  their  voices  to  the  skies,  nor  heed 

The  absence  of  the  world's  applause  ; 
But  sing  and  sing,  as  still  they  must ;  for  theirs, 

Like  yours,  has  still  inviolate  laws. 
Yet  sing,  and  should  you  prove  the  nightingale, 

Or  lark  in  heaven's  farthest  blue, 
The  great  world  last  will  hear  thy  melodies, 

And  wreathe  a  poet's  wreath  for  you!" 

XXII. 

And  over  April's  greening  fields  he  looked ; 

He  saw  hoar  winter  in  retreat, 
With  only  now  and  then  a  shroud  of  snow, 

And  many  a  rare  and  rustic  seat, 
That  winter  long  had  buried  from  the  view ; 

Like  black  and  winding  stream,  the  brook, 
The  mossy  rocks  e'en  glittering  with  the  frosts 

Of  morn.    And  Nature,  like  a  book, 


THE  CROWX. 

XXIII. 

By  April  opened.    All  the  world  was  fair, 

And  waned  the  month  at  last,  till,  lo  ! 
In  valley  e'en,  on  highest  mountain's  brow, 

Not  one  white  vestige  of  the  snow  ! 
And  flowers  more  venturous  than  the  rest  were  bold 

To  push  their  tender  leaflets  out, 
And  on  the  bier  of  April  shone  in  white, 

And  some  in  red  were  round  about. 

XXIV. 

And  some  were  yellow  with  the  sun,  their  names 
Are  shrined  in  many  a  maiden's  verse ; 

I  could  not  tell  you  half  as  well  as  they ; 

But  sure  they  were  on  April's  hearse, 

And  shone  in  beauty,  tho'  unknown  their  name, 
Like  many  a  lowly  Christian  soul  ;— 

But  hark  !  I  hear  a  sweet  sad  bell ;  for  April 
Dost  toll,  toll,  toll ! 

XXV. 

And  so  fair  month  of  smiles  and  dewy  tears, 

Hast  left  him  in  the  veiling  dark ; 
For,  April,  he  had  sought  thee,  well  to  know 

If  heaven  had  proffered  him  one  spark 
Of  art  divine,  and  that  the  busy  world 

Would  bend  to  hear  his  ditty  fair, 
And  crown  him  with  the  Mount  Ionian  bay 

Now  lost  in  depths  of  canopying  air. 

XXVI. 

But  f aretheewell,  sweet  month ;  if  he'were  born 

A  bard  from  out  the  warm  clear  skies, 
No  hand  shall  say  him  nay,  and  all  the  world 

Shall  know  him ;  for  his  lovely  eyes 
Shall  volumes  speak  to  those,  the  bright,  the  few, 

Who  know  a  beauty  from  afar ; 
Who  are  a  world  themselves,  the  world  I  speak 

That  know  the  beauty  of  a  star 

XXVII, 

A-trembling  in  the  sky^of  Poesy,  a  bard  ! 

And,  yea,  that  heaven  itself  has  'rayed 
With  beauty.    So  to  you  I  sing  my  song, 

My  song  of  him  who  knelt  and  prayed 
For  that  which  earth  could  never  give,  the  art 

Of  song.    But  list ;  he  cannot  say 
How  much  of  beauty  breathes  from  out  his  harp, 

How  much  of  magic  from  his  lay. 


604  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DA  RDALE. 

XXVIII. 

So,  like  the  wildbird  on  the  mouldering  fence, 

The  nightingale  in  veiled  eve, 
He  sang  to  any  ear  that  chanced  to  come ; 

But  list  the  wildbirds  while  they  grieve 
In  plaintive  strain,  a  tender  song,  a  warhler 

Piping  to  unattentive  skies ; 
And  they  have  their  reward,  and  you  the  same, 

O  longing  bard  with  tender  eyes. 

XXIX. 

Call  not  on  any  month.    As  Nature  taught  thee, 

Sing.    Time  shall  crown  thy  heavenly  brow ; 
For,  too  much  watching  tires  the  heart  for  aye, 

And  too  much  watching  tires  thee  now. 
Thy  crown  is  ready,  and  at  last  'tis  thine 

To  wear.    But  sing,  and  sing  thy  song, 
And  then  the  muses,  bending  down  from  heaven, 

Will  hear,  for  they  can  do  no  wrong. 

XXX. 

And  May  came  dancing  o'er  the  fields,  with  flowers 

Of  many  a  hue ;  and  sang  the  rills, 
The  birds,  the  May-Queens  in  the  flowery  meads, 

And  birdlings  with  their  dainty  wills. 
All  Nature  breathed  out  freshly :  grasses  waved, 

And  buds  were  on  the  fresh  young  trees, 
And  Spring  was  buried  up  in  flowers,  and  earth 

Was  sweetened  with  the  odorous  breeze. 

XXXI. 

And  then  came  June  with  further  sweets,  and  skies 

Made  warmer  by  the  sun's  white  rays ; 
But  May  nor  July  hot,  had  crowned 

The  longing  bard  with  dainty  bays ; 
But  you  could  see  the  hint  was  in  his  art 

That  time  would  make  him  what  he  longed ; 
And  so  it  was,  and  unexpected  came, 

And  merry  muses  lound  him  thronged. 

XXXII. 

For  he,  dear  soul,  had  sung  in  beauty  all 

The  time ;  but  not  till  one  sweet  song 
He  sang,  did  all  his  value  drawn  to  men ; 

And  then  abundance  for  their  wrong 
Was  heaped  upon  him.    And  the  long-sought  Crown 

Was  placed  upon  his  brow,  and  bowed 
The  world,  the  peasant,  stranger  from  the  east, 

The  haughty,  and  the  titled  proud  ! 


THE  EA  TON  FA  MIL  T  REUNION.  605 

XXXIII. 

The  moral.    Work  and  wait.    The  seed  is  sown, 

And  time  and  patience  give  the  grain ; 
But  you  must  do  the  one  sure  thing,  I  trow, 

In  any  walk,  ere  you  can  reign 
Upon  the  Throne !    And  thus  with  him.    He  wrought, 

And  wrought,  when  field  and  fold  were  brown ; 
But  when  he  did  the  one  right  thing,  the  world 

Placed  on  his  brow  the  fadeless  Crown ! 


THE  EATON  FAMILY  REUNION: 


With  dainty  muse  we  cross  the  sapphire  sea* 
With  kindred  love  we  wander  o'er  the  wave* 
We  little  dream  what  on  that  shore  may  be, 
Whether  a  homestead  or  a  lilied  grave ; 
But  something  draws  us.    Is  it  wrong  we  crave" 
To  wander  on  and  know  no  reason  why  ? 
And  yet  something  draws  us.    Waters  lave 
Our  ship ;  and  with  their  song  we  seem  to  sigh 
At  loss  of  some  dear  friend  that  only  lived  to  die ! 

Yet  On  we  fare ;  a  journey  born  of  dreams* 
But  still  we  go,  for  something  draws  us  near ; 
We  seem  to  sail  our  childhoods'  happy  streams^ 
With  time  turned  back,  the  golden  year  by  year ; 
And  what  this  something?    Falls  a  silent  tear* 
And  is  it  woe  or  joy  ?    We  cannot  tell ; 
We  smile,  mayhap,  and  breathe  our  soft  "Good-cheer  !'' 
And  yet  it  seems  a  sad,  a  last  farewell, 
As  when  the  loved  one  dies,  and  sounds  the  funeral  bell ! 

We  near  the  shore  with  ocean  spreading  back, 
And  half  in  thought  with  memory  do  we  turn 
And  gaze  in  love  across  the  great  broad  track ; 
And  longing,  as  we  reach  the  vessel's  stern, 
For  some  strange  reason,  yet  we  fondly  yearn 
To  go  and  stay ;  but  when  we  strike  the  land, 
We  find  the  nether  cheek  will  flush  and  burn, 
As  when  some  kindred  of  a  broken  band 
Comes  sudden  to  our  side  and  takes  us  by  the  hand ! 

And  so  it  was.    Beside  the  sounding  pier 

The  Mayflower  waited  with  her  human  freight ! 


606  THE  LAD  Y  OF  DAE  DALE. 

The  lingering  friend  had  wiped  the  falling  tear, 
And  for  the  signal  did  the  helmsman  wait ; 
Now  friends ;  and  two  by  two,  and  mate  with  mate, 
Left  native  land,  and  o'er  the  severing  sea 
Were  wafted  to  another  clime,  a  fate 
They  craved.    The  waters  swashed  upon  the  lea, 
And  onward  there  they  flew  to  land  of  dreamed-of  beauty. 

The  spring  has  come  and  gone ;  the  summer,  fair 
Has  wooed  the  leaf  upon  the  tree.    And  gray 
Old  Autumn  shed  abundance  everywhere, 
While  hoary  Winter  with  his  frosted  spray 
Has  decked  their  grave  for  many  a  hallowed  day, 
Till  we  are  left  to  wander  on  alone, 
Tho'  many  a  one  has  halted  by  the  way, 
But  loving  hands  have  placed  the  sculptured  stone 
Where  all  the  seasons  come  in  nature's  varied  tone. 

In  sixteen  twenty  sailed  the  ship.    The  Mayflower 
Of  many  a  poet's  raptured  song.    And  there 
Our  kindred  were ;  and  so  to  us  this  hour 
Has  hallowed  memories,  and  we  wander  where 
The  good  ship,  with  our  kindred  young  and  fair, 
Awaits  the  buoyant  breeze  to  fan  her  o'er 
The  trackless  deep ;  and  thus  we  have  a  care, 
A  true  concern ;  but  as  we  walk  the  shore 
A  something  whispers  soft:  "You  ne'er  may  see  them  more !" 

And  now  we  know  what  drew  us  o'er  the  wave, 
What  made  the  past  seem  near  and  yet  so  far ; 
But  as  we  look  we  see  a  mouldering  grave ; 
And  yet  does  memory,  like  a  rising  star, 
Shed  glory  round  in  many  a  silvery  bar, 
Clothing  the  past  in  raiments  faultless  fair, 
Till  Then  and  Now  in  Beauty's  winged  car, 
Are  speeding  thro'  the  years  with  hallowed  air, 
Making  their  age  and  ours  a  truly  blended  pair. 

And  as  we  follow  Memory's  beck  we  see 
The  kin  of  Francis  Eaton  gathered  here, 
Of  John  of  Dedham,  with  a  soul  as  free 
As  winged  winds.    For  him  they  shed  the  tear, 
The  sturdy  son  of  Haverhill,  on  his  bier 
E'en  many  a  year  agone ;  and  those  that  came 
To  Beading,  dead  with  them  for  many  a  year, 
But  leaving  offspring  known  in  walks  of  fame, 
Who  e'en  to-day,  I  trow,  have  won  as  high  a  name. 


THE  EATON'  FAMILY  REUNION.  «07 

In  Halls  of  Congress,  on  the  Senate  floor, 
Upon  the  rostrum  do  we  find  them.    I, 
In  looking  back,  see  dear  old  Plymouth  shore, 
Where  holy  traits  beneath  a  heavenly  sky, 
First  touched  soft  the  Eaton  breast ;  and  shy, 
The  Puritanic  love  prevailed ;  and  now 
I  see  them  in  the  pulpit.    Can'st  deny 
Tis  love  that  makes  them  reverential  bow 
And  offer  up  to  God  the  warm  devotional  vow  ? 

In  revolutionary  war  were  found, 
They  drew  the  glittering  sword  for  lovfid  Peace, 
They  bared  the  brawny  arm  to  till  the  ground, 
They  held  the  plow ;  and,  famed  sons  of  Greece ! 
Their  words  were  wing6d  swords !  O  Time !  release 
My  shackled  mind,  for  I  would  fling  to  thought 
The  reins  of  freedom.    May  thy  journey  cease 
When  every  Eaton  finds  a  chain  enwrought 
That  binds  them  heart  to  heart  till  hoary  time  is  naught. 

The  Mayflower  sailed ;  it  seems  a  flitting  day ; 
The  Mayflower  sailed ;  we  seem  to  see  them  now ; 
The  Mayflower  sailed  ;  we  wonder  where  away ; 
The  Mayflower  sailed ;  and  rears  the  shining  prow; 
The  Mayflower  sailed  ;  in  prayer  we  see  them  bow  ; 
We  cannot  feel  the  years  have  mouldering  fled, 
That  they  have  breathed  their  final  prayer,  their  vow  ; 
That  hoary  fathers,  and  the  maid  unwed, 
Have  many  a  long,  long  year  been  numbered  with  the  dead. 

But  let  us  cherish  all  the  past,  and  friend 
Meet  friend  in  social  love,  till  endless  time 
Has  made  the  lilies  and  the  roses  blend 
Above  our  graves,  and  poet's  lowly  chime 
Has  sung  our  tale  in  one  melodious  rhyme, 
And  on  the  sculptured  stone  has  traced  our  worth, 
Has  found  us  fitted  for  another  Clime 
Far  in  the  stars  above  this  lowly  earth 
Where  winged  angels  are,  and  souls  of  perfect  birth  I 


PSALM,* 

Tune :  "What  a  Friend  we  have  In  Jesus." 
Once  again  we  meet  together, 
Once  again  we  sing  our  lay ; 
While  the  tides  are  moving  onward 

To  that  bright  effulgent  Day. 
''Sung  at  the  Eaton  Family  Reunion,  Oct.  27, 1885. 


608  THE  LADY  OF  DARDALE. 

When  the  moon  is  veiled  in  heaven, 
And  her  light  is  nevermore, 

May  we  meet  in  love  together 
On  that  farther,  brighter  Shore. 

We  have  come  in  Love's  fruition 
While  old  Autumn  groweth  sere, 

And  the  falling  leaves  around  us 
Shroud  the  slowly  dying  year. 

For  a  vein  of  blood  has  joined  us 
Like  a  crimson  line  of  love, 

And  cemented  here  in  Kinship 
May  we  still  unite  above. 

May  we  find  in  social  union 
All  the  better  traits  of  life, 

And  as  music  high  in  heaven, 
Find  no  discord  and  no  strife. 

May  we  see  in  broken  lilies 
By  the  roadside  all  alone, 

Intimations  of  the  beauty 
Shining  round  the  Great  White  Throne. 

And  in  parting  leave  behind  us 
Sweetest  traits  that  last  for  aye, 

A  nd  the  holy  recollections 
Of  this  dear  Memorial  Day. 


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